


to take the pain away

by CS_WhiteWolf



Series: 37 stitches to keep the pain in [5]
Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Depression, Light At the End Of the Tunnel, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Night Terrors, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Romance, Self-Harm/Injury, Suicidal Themes, allusions to asexuality, elastic band therapy, post season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 61,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CS_WhiteWolf/pseuds/CS_WhiteWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post S2. <i>Life goes on, but moving on proves to be harder than Kent imagined it would be.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. to keep the pain in

**Author's Note:**

> **Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent hasn't been sleeping. Chandler takes notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **}** [37stitches @ livejournal](http://cs-whitewolf.livejournal.com/351804.html)  
>  **}** [37stitches @ tumblr](http://campaspe.tumblr.com/tagged/on-writing%3A-37stitches)

Kent pressed his fingers against his eyelids, trying to rub away the itch of tiredness making them blur the pages of the case file he was trying to get through. The pressure brought little relief and he dropped his hand with a sigh, blinking away the spots that danced before his eyes as he struggled to focus.

It was gone past nine in the evening already, and aside from his DI, Kent was the only member of their team still working out of the Incident Room. It had been a few weeks now since the Kray investigation and though things were slowly returning to normal -- insofar as the term could apply to them, and the types of cases they were becoming known for (and for failing to solve to any sort of satisfying degree) -- the loss of both Kray brothers had left a bitter taste in all their mouths.

As a result of their failings they’d been relegated to the usual Friday night muggings and domestic call outs. Where once they would have felt the slight for what it was, now they only appreciated the calm before the next, inevitable, storm. If nothing else, the downtime gave them all a chance to recover, to lick their wounds and try to piece what they’d once had as a team back together again. Between McCormack’s suicide and the Kray’s personal vendettas, things had predictably become more than a little tense between them all.

Just thinking about the Kray’s and their attacks on the team brought to mind the attack he, himself, had suffered at their hands. He shifted in his seat, feeling the familiar twinge beneath the numbness that sitting for too long evoked. He pressed his fingers against his eyes again, frowning into the pressure as he tried to control the burn beneath his eyelids. Tiredness, frustration, _pain_. He didn’t know if he wanted to sleep or to cry. He still hurt. Weeks after returning to work, after ensuring the Kray’s reign of terror could not- _would not_ \- be continued, after the purge of corrupt officers in all departments, after everything, _he_. _still_. _hurt._

He’d thought things would have been better by now. That everything would have gone back to how they’d been, _before_. That _he_ would go back to how he’d been before. But they hadn’t. And he hadn’t. Nothing had changed. If anything it felt as if everything had just gotten worse.

Kent felt the moisture build up beneath his eyelids and rubbed furiously at them, digging his fingers in until the burn became something more than just simple tiredness or frustration. He shifted in his seat once more and the twinge became a slice of pain up his right side, shooting up from his buttock and stabbing through to his lower back.

He wasn’t sure if he made a sound, a gasp or a whimper at the pain, but barely a second later he heard movement from Chandler’s office. He flinched at the sound, jolting his hands from his face, his body tensing instinctively for flight-

-before Chandler stepped into the doorway.

He dropped his gaze, shuffling needlessly at the manila folder he’d been reading from. His heart was beating frantically against his chest. For a moment there, just a moment, he’d thought… he’d actually thought…

Kent bit at his lip. His fingers twitched against the pages as Chandler moved towards his desk, coming round to Kent’s side and leaning himself against the edge beside him.

He looked up, mouth pulling downwards as he waited for the expected lecture on staying too late and needing to look after himself more (he’d endured no less than three of these such lectures this week already and as much as he knew his team cared about him, each time he was forced to listen to them express their concerns over his health and well-being, it just made him feel small and incompetent. As though they didn’t think he could take care of himself).

Wordlessly, Chandler reached out to touch at the folder he’d been reading, his eyes skimming over the pages of yet another of the cold case files they’d been pursuing between their regular cases.

“You’ve been getting through quite a few of these,” Chandler said, conversationally.

Kent shrugged, carefully turning in his seat. “There’s not much else to do around here at the moment, sir.”

Chandler nodded, as if in agreement, “They’re not a priority though.”

“Nothing is,” Kent replied with another shrug.

“I mean, you don’t have to stay late to work on them,” Chandler pressed, the beginnings of a frown creasing his brow.

Kent dropped his gaze. He folded his hands in his lap, trying to stop the shake in them by squeezing his fingers together. “I know what you meant, sir.”

“Emerson-,” Chandler’s voice was soft, almost disappointed, and despite himself Kent looked up again.

Chandler’s frown deepened exponentially, his eyes raking over Kent’s face a moment before he reached out, his hand coming up to cup at his jaw. Kent startled at the touch and reached up to grab instinctively at Chandler’s wrist.

“Sir-?” he questioned, frowning himself. Chandler’s wrist was soft beneath his fingertips, the shift of bones delicate as Chandler tipped his face up a little further.

He felt his heart stutter. Seeing the intensity with which Chandler was looking at him. His fingers tightened minutely, unconsciously. Chandler hadn’t touched him with any sort of intimacy since the day of McCormack’s funeral where he’d held first his hand and then Kent himself.

“When was the last time you slept?” Chandler asked, his thumb moving against his cheek, brushing at the skin just below his eye. Kent felt his heartbeat pick up again.

“I sleep,” he returned, defensive. Feeling suddenly self-conscious with Chandler’s attention focussed so wholly on him.

“That’s not what I asked you,” Chandler pressed.

“Last night.” He bit out, pulling Chandler’s hand from his face. His skin tingled where Chandler’s touch had been and he looked away, feeling instantly terrible for his reaction. He knew Chandler was only expressing his concern. Any other time and he’d have been revelling in the idea of Chandler expressing any kind of emotion in his direction.

“Look, it’s nothing, alright?” he tried, belatedly realising he was still holding Chandler’s wrist. He released his grip almost reluctantly.

“You know they can’t hurt you anymore-,” Chandler started. Kent winced, visions of the knife slicing through him playing in his minds eye. He shook his head, trying to dispel the image as well as Chandler’s line of inquiry. “-we got everyone in the department too, Emerson.”

Kent frowned, mouth thinning. “I know,” he breathed out.

And he did. He knew that there wasn’t anyone around with an agenda against him anymore. He knew that. He just… it was _hard_ , knowing something and trusting in that same knowledge to protect him. He didn’t know how to stop feeling so defensive and on edge, how to stop seeing his own attack played over and over again on some sickening high-definition loop every time he closed his eyes. He knew work though, and the distraction from his own thoughts it brought him. He just didn’t know how to get that across to the others in a way that wouldn’t have them all calling for an immediate suspension or another psych eval.

“I’m heading off for the night,” Chandler said then, not pushing. Kent felt himself slumping just a little in both relief and defeat. “I’ll give you a lift if you’re ready to go?”

“Oh, you don’t have to-,” He started.

“I insist.” Chandler interrupted, moving away from his desk and towards his office once more. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Kent watched him go, heart still thundering against his chest. He wondered if Chandler had only stayed this long because of him. He’d noticed it more and more as the weeks went on, that the others would stick around as long as they could before calling it a night. Despite having less work to do, everyone seemed to be putting in more and more hours and Kent had never stopped to think about it before now. He hadn’t been left alone at the office since… well, since _then_.

He wondered if Chandler had said something to the team about his being here the night the Incident Room was raided.

His chest felt tight as he pushed away from his own desk and cautiously got to his feet. His right leg shook beneath him, a rush of needles and pins running up the length of it. He gripped at his chair for a moment, waiting for the prickling sensation to fade away. He was getting better at ignoring it, at pretending that his striping wasn’t still affecting him.

Or, at least he thought he was.

When he looked up again, Chandler was standing in the doorway of his office, coat on and hand on the light switch, watching him carefully. He grimaced a smile, looking away and reaching for his own coat, thankful when his DI passed no comment.

\- - -

The drive from the precinct was made in silence, with Kent staring forlornly out of the side window as Chandler drove them through the streets of London. Every so often he’d flick his gaze back towards Chandler, watching as the passing streetlights threw his face into a kaleidoscope of light and shade, waiting for him to finally break the silence between them.

It wasn’t that Kent _wanted_ him to say anything, more that he was expecting _something_ to be said; a comment, a lecture, an automatic suspension for not being quite up to scratch. He’d seen the way Chandler had watched him on their way out of the Incident Room, it had been glaringly obvious even without the covert glances that he was in pain. He’d done his best to disguise the limp with which he was walking, but it had been slow going all the same, and Chandler hadn’t said a word the whole time: not when he’d had to reach out and steady Kent on the stairs, not even when he’d seen Kent dry swallow two painkillers the second they were in his car.

And not now, twenty minutes into a half-hour drive to his shared flat when the silence between them seemed to drag on for an eternity. Kent felt as though he was poised on the edge of a nervous panic, wondering if he should count it as a blessing or pre-empt any possibility of a conversation by initiating one that had absolutely nothing to do with anything.

The car slowed to an idle stop; a traffic light turning from amber to red.

Chandler kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, his hands tight upon the steering wheel. Kent could see the way his knuckles were straining white and he bit his lip, fisting his own hands in his lap.

“I’m not sleeping.” He blurted before he’d even consciously decided to say anything at all. The words stuck like bile in his throat. He swallowed heavily against the taste of self-betrayal as he waited for Chandler to say something, anything.

“I know.” Chandler wasn’t even looking at him as he spoke, his voice soft and sure, as if he’d known exactly what Kent was going to say even before he did.

He bit harder at his lip, clenched his fingers a little more tightly together. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t’ve… sorry.”

He turned his head to stare out the window, wishing he’d just kept his mouth shut after all. If Chandler had wanted to talk he’d have said something. And, clearly, he hadn’t. More than that, Kent had just admitted something to him that he’d had absolutely no intention of sharing with anyone.

It started to rain. A light drizzle almost misting down upon the road. Kent wished it were heavier, that each drop would bounce up against the car and drown out the silence in a way his words couldn’t.

The almost tentative touch of Chandler’s hand against the clasp of his own made him jump. He looked down quickly, watching as Chandler’s hand settled over his, fingers curling around his fists with a squeeze that was both comforting and reassuring.

“I’m not asking because I didn’t think you wanted me to,” Chandler said, voice soft, sincere. Kent sucked in a breath, eyes flicking to meet Chandler’s and seeing that same concerned look from earlier plastered visibly across his face.

And just like that Kent knew that he wanted him too. He twisted his hands around, clinging to Chandler’s with just a hint of desperation. Chandler let him, squeezing back just as tightly and Kent felt the ever-present tightness in his chest constrict further.

“I just… I don’t want you, _any_ of you, to think that I can’t handle this. That I can’t do my job.”

“We don’t think that.” Came the immediate response. Kent couldn’t help but snort his disbelief.

“You’re always watching me. All of you. And it feels like-”

A horn sounded loudly behind them, making Kent jump and Chandler hiss something under his breath as he hurriedly pulled his hand from Kent’s and released the handbrake. It was only when the car started moving again that Kent even realised the light had changed. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his heartbeat even as the driver behind them accelerated, overtaking them with another angry blaring of his horn.

For a moment he allowed himself to be distracted by thoughts of traffic violations and speeding tickets, wondering absently if Chandler would pursue the driver when Chandler’s hand returned to his, fingers slipping easily between his own.

“You were saying?” Though his eyes were fixed firmly on the road now and not on Kent, he felt as if Chandler were still watching him. He dropped his eyes to their hands, reflexively flexing his fingers. Chandler tightened his grip before loosening his hold, in much the same way as he’d done the last time they were this intimately close to one another. Kent closed his fingers around Chandler’s again not wanting to let go.

“You mentioned you weren’t sleeping?” Chandler tried when Kent remained silent.

He bit at his lip. He really only had himself to blame now for Chandler’s interest.

“I’m having some trouble,” he admitted. Chandler squeezed his hand, encouraging him to continue.

Kent frowned, not sure how to start. He’d thought admitting the fact was supposed to make the rest easier, not harder. But how was he supposed to tell Chandler that he couldn’t sleep because every time he closed his eyes he saw his attacks played out over and over again, waking breathless and terrified and more often than not with a shout on his lips.

How could he tell him that his flatmates were so fed up with being woken through the night by him that he’d just _stopped_ trying to sleep for all their sakes, that he didn’t want to sleep anyway because he was terrified of what he’d see, that he was working himself to the bone in the vein hope that sheer exhaustion was the key to sleeping without dreaming.

“You have to give me something here, Emerson,” Chandler said, “I can’t help if you don’t talk to me.”

“I know… it’s just,” he sucked in a frustrated breath. Like a plaster, he thought. He was just going to have to say it like he was tearing off a plaster and hope that when the fabric pulled away he hadn’t ripped himself open again in the process.

“I’ve been having nightmares. Almost every night. I can’t sleep because every time I try I wake up feeling like I’m being striped all over again. Like they’re right there in the room with me. And I’ve tried everything but it’s been _weeks_ now and everyone- my flatmates- they’re just fed up with the whole thing. And I am too. But I don’t know… I don’t know how to make it all stop except to work, to…” he shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

The last was said barely above a whisper but he knew Chandler heard him if the open look of concern he shot him was anything to go by.

“Have you spoken to anyone else about this?” Chandler asked a moment later, squeezing once at Kent’s hand before pulling away to apply the break as he pulled up outside Kent’s flat.

Kent shrugged. “Just the shrink they assigned me after the… attack.” He choked a little on the last word, trying to swallow past the bile talking about the whole thing brought up.

“It’s just my mind’s way of trying to process everything.” He finished, pressing his lips together. Chandler was watching him carefully, his hand still on the handbrake. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Chandler to try and hold his hand again or not, wasn’t brave enough to reach out and see if Chandler wanted to. Instead he folded his arms across his chest, hunching in on himself a little.

“And have you processed everything?”

He looked over, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“You came back pretty soon after the attack, right after we arrested Johnny Kray, before you were fully cleared to return to work even. Things… things didn’t get any easier from there and, I’m just worried now that you haven’t had enough time to yourself to properly accept what happened to you.”

“I’ve spent enough time trying to accept what happened to me!” Kent said, voice rising. “Don’t you dare-! Don’t you try to bench me for this! I barely made it through that first suspension, alright? Is that what you want to hear? All I had was myself and my thoughts and there was no one- _nothing_ else. I _need_ to keep working, Joe, it’s the only thing that’s keeping me going, the only thing that makes me feel- that makes me-,” he broke off, pressing a hand to his mouth to stop the flow of words.

He felt stretched thin, fragile and too close to saying everything that was on his mind. He wanted to scream, to cry, to curl up and never move again. It _hurt_. It hurt so goddamned much and he didn’t… he _couldn’t_ …

“It makes you feel what?” Chandler asked, pressing exactly where it hurt. Kent shook his head, eyes squeezing closed.

“Emerson, it makes you feel what?” Chandler reached over, pulling his hand from his mouth and Kent turned his frown on him, very aware of how close to tearing apart at the seams he was.

“Safe!” He bit out. “I just- I feel safe, okay?”

“Okay,” Chandler easily agreed. Kent slanted him a look, unconvinced and just a little disbelieving.

Chandler smiled, mouth soft and sincere and Kent found himself slumping back against the seat, drained. Chandler still had a hold of his hand and Kent slowly became aware of the slow circles he was making with his thumb against the palm.

“You know humouring me isn’t going to make me feel better?” He asked, feeling suddenly, ridiculously exhausted.

Chandler offered him another smile. “I’m not humouring you. I am glad you feel safe at work.”

“I feel safe because you’re there.” Kent half-laughed against the words, shaking his head and looking away, wondering how Chandler would take that. He’d meant it to encompass the whole of the team, but sitting here beside Chandler, alone in the quiet of his car with nothing but the soft pattering of rain against the roof to interrupt him, he meant it about Chandler too. Maybe _just_ about Chandler.

“I don’t want you to think I’m weak for this,” he said softly in the silence following his words.

“I don’t think that.” Chandler said.

“Or a liability,” he continued, “I can still do my job. I haven’t let this affect my work.”

“I know you haven’t.” Chandler agreed, almost before he’d finished speaking.

Kent felt a spark of irritation. “You _are_ humouring me!”

“I’m not-”

“You’re just agreeing-”

“Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” Chandler interrupted.

“-with everything I’m, what?”

“Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” Chandler repeated. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“I- are you serious?” Kent asked, faltering. Irritation warring with disbelief.

“I don’t think any less of you, Kent. Not for anything that’s happened. What the Kray’s did to you, what you went through during the investigation, any one of us would still be feeling the affects from that. I think you’ve held it together remarkably well. I- I don’t know if I’d have managed quite so well.”

“You were kidnapped,” Kent argued, trying not to think about the offer Chandler had made (twice) and then proceeded to ignore. “They beat you up. They could have _killed_ you. But you… you came back in the day after and, and you were _fine_.”

“No, I wasn’t fine. But I have enough issues of my own that no one noticed.” He said, smiling wryly.

“The paperclips?” Kent asked, slowly, carefully.

It was Chandler’s turn to half-laugh. “Almost no one.” He amended. “That was right before-,” he broke off and Kent shifted awkwardly.

“I was barely holding it together. After-,” Kent gestured at nothing in particular. “I passed your office and saw you counting and I just felt-,” he stopped, shrugged, heart beating frantically against his chest. Seeing Chandler had calmed him somewhat. He hadn’t really thought about what he’d been doing, instead he’d put it down as another OCD quirk of his.

“It made you feel safe?” Chandler asked, leading.

Kent half-shrugged. “It was… familiar.”

Chandler looked away, embarrassed. “And then I came out and ruined that.” He said, quietly.

Kent said nothing and Chandler didn’t try to defend his actions. They’d already had this conversation and Kent was sure that neither of them wanted to rehash what had already been said.

“My offer still stands,” Chandler said instead. “You’re welcome to stay with me tonight. If you want. And not because I think you can’t- because I don’t- but you said you felt safe with us at work and I assume that includes me and-,”

“Yes.”

“-I won’t think any different of you whatever you decide, I just though that if-” Chandler cut off his rambling and blinked at Kent. “Yes?”

“Yeah. I, that is if you’re-?” He trailed off, biting at his lip.

“Yes. No, I… yes.” Chandler nodded, lips curling into another soft smile that Kent found himself helpless but to return.

\- - -

The realisation that he would be staying with Chandler didn’t quite sink in until they’d arrived and Kent found himself standing inside an excessively clean and expensive looking flat. He clutched almost desperately at the overnight bag he’d packed, fretting over whether to take his shoes off now, ten paces into the open-plan living room cum kitchen, or if he should have taken them off the second he entered the flat (possibly even before he’d set foot into the flat).

Not that Chandler had removed his, but standing in such an obviously clean space made Kent feel a bit like he ought to make an effort to help keep it that way. And though he wasn’t tracking mud across the wooden flooring, he dreaded to think what slight Chandler would take at his tracking _anything_ across his floors whether by intention or not.

Chandler moved further into the living room, flicking a few lamps on en lieu of the main lights. Emboldened, Kent made it towards the couch before surreptitiously slipping his shoes off and nudging them neatly against the side. He clutched harder at his bag however as Chandler’s eyes followed his movements, a wry smile touching at his mouth.

“Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?” Chandler asked, hands flinching nervously at his sides.

Kent shook his head. “Um, no. Thank you. Just- may I use your bathroom?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Chandler gestured behind Kent. “It’s just down the hall, first door on the left. Towels are under the sink.”

Kent nodded his thanks.

By the time he reached the bathroom, he felt as though his heart was in his stomach, leaden and making him feel just a touch queasy. He dropped his bag to the tiled floor and leaned heavily against the door.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. It was one thing waking with night terrors and upsetting his flatmates, but quite another to do the same thing to his boss. What if he woke screaming? Crying? Unable to control the disabling fear he felt every time he woke up incapable of remembering where he was, or who he was with; the lingering aftertaste of his dreams still so fresh and debilitating. What if he lashed out at Chandler?

Oh god. Did he really want Chandler to see him in such a state? What had he been thinking? Why had Chandler invited him here at all? Was it out of a sense of responsibility? A manifestation of his own lingering guilt over the entire Kray disaster? He’d said it wasn’t but… it was hard not to feel like an obligation. As close as they’d grown over the last few weeks, there was still so much about themselves they didn’t share, questions they never asked, answers they never volunteered.

And this... this was a part of himself he didn’t want to share. Didn’t want anyone to see. This week, pathetic, mewling part.

Kent ran his hands through his hair, fingers curling fistfuls in his frustration. He had to stop this. He was just thinking himself into a panic. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to unclench his fingers and straighten up. He was here now. And over-analysing every little thing wasn’t going to help him. He’d stay, to decide otherwise now would only make things between Chandler and himself all the more awkward. But that didn’t… that didn’t mean he had to sleep. Did it?

He straightened a little, the idea slowly beginning to take form.

He could put up enough of a pretence to appease Chandler for tonight. And then hope he made it through the day at work tomorrow. He’d be fine once he got home, it being a Friday his flatmates would more likely than not be out until all hours of the morning. He should be able catch a few hours of sleep before he was woken either by dreams or the not-so-silent return of his flatmates.

He just had to make it through tonight.

He could do this.

Mind made up, Kent finally let himself look around the bathroom. It was a white suite; the sink a few paces in front of him with a bath to the left and the toilet to the right. Plain and impersonal. Kent stepped forward, lifting his bag to the sink and carefully reaching in to pull out a washcloth and a tube of cream.

He started the sink running, hot water quick to steam up the mirror above. It was better that way. He was self-conscious enough without having to catch glimpses of himself as he did this.

He stripped slowly, feeling awkward, vulnerable. He couldn’t help but look around, just to make sure he was completely alone before dropping the last of his clothing to the floor. He shivered, not entirely with cold, and tried to ignore the pinpricks crawling up his spine as he dipped his washcloth into the sink; hot water scalding at his fingers.

His movements, though hesitant, were quick and methodical. Too many weeks spent repeating the same motions meant that at least now he didn’t have to look at himself to do this.

His stomach rolled as he ran the cloth gingerly over his backside, over the thick lines of scarring that ran down the length of both cheeks; the right slightly worse off than the left: deeper, uglier. They were only just beginning to heal, weeks down the line, colour bleeding out from an angry puckered red to the now slightly less grotesquely purple hue. It would take a few more months before the bruised colouring completely faded, and with it the pain that occasionally flared up (or so he hoped. The knife’s edge had caught at his sciatic nerve on the right side and only time would tell if it would heal itself or worsen.)

Until then he had to persevere with scar oils, analgesic creams, and gritted teeth.

He finished quickly, applying the thick cream with practiced motions before pulling on the pyjama pants and well worn band t-shirt he’d brought with him to sleep in. His right leg was shaking badly by the time he was done and he took another moment to lean against the sink, shifting more of his weight onto his left leg to try and ease the pain. He could feel the deep heat effect of the analgesic cream slowly seeping through his muscles. He breathed carefully, in and out, in and out until the shaking stopped and Kent was able to carefully lean his weight to the right. He sighed in relief as his leg held him once more.

Okay. He could do this. He looked up briefly, catching sight of himself in the desteamed mirror. He did look as bad as he felt. He frowned at his reflection, seeing the bags beneath his eyes and the clammy pallor of his skin. No wonder Chandler had been so concerned about him. He looked tired. More than tired even. He wished it were just a physical exhaustion, but Kent knew it all stemmed from his inability to let go of the trauma he’d suffered during the Kray investigation.

 _Psychological_ is what the shrink he’d been assigned before he was officially allowed back to work had called it.

Kent turned away from his reflection with a grimace.

He spared one final look around the bathroom before packing up his things and shuffling his way back into the living room.

Chandler was standing in the kitchen, busy with two mugs and a carton of milk when Kent returned. He dropped his bag beside his shoes and made his way over.

“I made tea,” Chandler offered, holding out one of mugs. Kent smiled his thanks, taking the mug and cradling it in his hands, enjoying the way the heat seeped through into his palms. He leaned up against the island, watching as Chandler turned to put the milk back in the fridge.

“I don’t actually have a guest room,” Chandler started, turning back. “Well I do,” he continued, meeting Kent’s eyes briefly with a self-deprecatingly smile. “But it’s actually being used as a study at the moment.”

Kent frowned minutely, not sure if he was supposed to say something to that or not. He busied himself with a sip of tea en lieu of speaking.

Chandler cleared his throat, hands reaching to fiddle nervously with the handle of his own mug. “By which I mean you’re welcome to stay in my room for tonight.” He said after a heartbeat. And just as Kent’s heart lurched in his chest, he added: “I’ll take the couch.”

Oh. _Oh._ “That’s okay,” he said, swallowing heavily. “I’ll be fine on the couch.”

Chandler shook his head. “Really, it’s no trouble-,”

“I don’t want to impose-,”

“And as my guest-,”

“Joe-,” Kent raised his voice slightly and Chandler trailed off. “It’s fine, really. I’d feel bad taking your room. The couch really is fine. It’s only for one night.”

Chandler frowned minutely, his eyes dropping from Kent’s and Kent found himself wondering if he’d said the wrong thing.

There was a strange look on Chandler’s face when he did look back up, but he was smiling again. Kent relaxed.

“If you’re sure?” He offered again, hands finally sliding around his own mug.

Kent nodded, cupping his own mug as he brought it to his lips for a sip. “Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks.”

They drifted off into a silence then, each of them busying themselves with their drinks. Kent kept taking small sips of his tea, wanting to prolong it as much as possible, worried that Chandler was just biding his time until he began the next inevitable slew of questions. Questions he only had himself to blame for Chandler asking.

Keeping his eyes downcast, Kent distracted himself by looking around the kitchen. It was more personal than the bathroom, but still empty enough of personality that Kent wondered if Chandler spent any time in here at all. There were no magnets on the fridge, no knick-knacks littered across the island (not that Kent took Chandler for a knick-knack sort of guy, but the point still stood).

He could see a neat stack of newspapers on one end of the island, a wine fridge nestled almost inconspicuously between the fridge and the dark wood cabinets, and a fruit bowl containing only a bunch of bananas and a few Clementines, but otherwise the kitchen was just as bland and unassuming as the bathroom had been.

There wasn’t anything to say that this was a _home_ to Chandler, and not just some place he stopped by to change his clothes and maybe catch a few hours of shut-eye.

Kent turned slightly, looking over towards the living room he’d barely glanced at when he’d arrived. There was a three piece sectional sofa in brown leather situated in the middle of the room, one side facing out towards a set of balcony doors, the other side facing onto a floor-to-ceiling wall of box shelves, which were filled with all manner of books, a few contained framed photographs and the rest held what looked to be a surprisingly large number of vinyl records and a player.

Kent wanted to ask what kind of music Chandler listened to. If their tastes were in any way alike. He couldn’t see any sign of a TV in the living room and smiled softly at the thought of Chandler simply relaxing after a long day at work by listening to one of his favourite records and maybe reading a treasured novel.

When he turned his attention back to Chandler, it was to find the other man watching him. Kent felt his smile slip from his face and he bent his head to take another sip of his tea, suddenly feeling like an intruder.

The silence continued to grow and Kent shifted his weight to his left leg, elbows leaning against the island between them. It wasn’t an expectant silence so much as an obvious one. He didn’t feel like Chandler was waiting for him to speak, or even that Chandler was waiting for the right moment in which to start speaking himself, it was just that this situation was so wholly palpable that Kent found himself tensing all over again, unable to relax into it and pretend, even for a moment, that this was something they did together. Something they could do together.

But it wasn’t. And they couldn’t. And not for the first time Kent wondered what the hell he’d been thinking to agree to stay the night. He didn’t belong here. With Chandler. In this expensive looking flat with all these expensive looking furnishings. Chandler’s personal possessions neatly placed and ordered around him, little clues into the kind of man he was beneath everything else. He felt somehow as though he were trespassing with even this small glance into Chandler’s private life.

“Are you finished?” The sound of Chandler’s voice caught him off guard and Kent jumped, his mug clanging too-loudly against the countertop. They both grimaced at the noise.

“Sorry, I- what?” Kent fumbled, righting his mug, thankful that he hadn’t spilt the dregs of his tea all over the surface. His face felt awkwardly hot.

“Your tea,” Chandler clarified, “are you finished with it?”

“Oh, yeah,” He passed his mug over, clenching his fingers together now that he had nothing else to hold on to, his knuckles straining white as he waited for the inevitable return to question time.

Instead of speaking, Chandler simply turned towards the sink and proceeded to rinse both mugs out with liquid soap and hot water.

If anything, watching him put Kent more on edge. Had he misjudged? Was Chandler luring him into a false sense of security? Was his lack of questioning a ploy to have Kent blurt something of his own out first in an effort to diffuse the silence? Or was Chandler simply letting Kent choose where the night went?

He dropped his head into his hands. He was thinking himself into circles again. He just couldn’t seem to help himself though. There was so much in his life at the moment that he could just not control that the thought of willingly giving up any control he did have, even if it was just the kind of talking that let someone else in to see what he was going through, made him feel physically ill.

“Emerson-,” Chandler called, his voice soft, anxious.

Kent winced, looking up with a wary expression.

“Are you okay?” And the question was directed at so much more than just this situation.

 _No. No I’m not._ He wanted to say, throat closing in on him, cutting off the words. _I don’t think I’ll ever be okay._

It took him a minute, but eventually he shook his head, forcing a grimace of a smile onto his face.

“Just tired,” he breathed out. “I think I’m ready for bed.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but guilt churned his stomach with the knowledge it wasn’t exactly the truth either.

Chandler looked like he understood and Kent had to turn away, unable to bear the open concern on his face.

“There’s a pillow and blankets on the couch,” Chandler said, “do you need anything else?”

“No, I- I’ll be fine.”

Chandler took a moment to look at him before nodding and making his way around the island. Just as he was passing by however, Kent reached out and caught at Chandler’s hand.

Chandler stilled, blinking at him. It was the first time Kent had initiated contact between them and they both knew it. Kent swallowed nervously, surprised by his own impulsiveness.

“I just… thank you.” He said, gratefully. Chandler squeezed at his fingers.

“Goodnight, Emerson.”

The smile Chandler gave him twisted his heart and stomach in equal measures.

\- - -

He’d relocated to the living room once Chandler left the room, even going so far as to settle on the couch as though he fully intended to take advantage of it for the night. Once settled however, he distracted himself with his phone, with scanning Chandler’s shelves, with anything that would keep him awake.

Despite promising himself he would not sleep however, sleep inevitably claimed him.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Only a moment.

But a moment was all it took.

 

He woke with a jolt and a half-strangled sob on his lips, his eyes blown wide as he pushed himself up from his slumped position, struggling with the blanket tangled around his legs until he could sit up and draw them close, hunching in on himself. His heart was pounding painfully against his chest and he pressed his face up against his knees, trying to stifle the sound of his harsh breathing.

The remnants of his nightmare taunted him, flashing across his mind in staccato bursts of sounds and images. He’d been in the Incident Room again, working late, but instead of being accosted by the constables who’d ransacked the room, it had been the Kray twins themselves. Walking in, bold as brass, they’d pulled him from his chair and shoved him face-first against the wall, promising him another set of scars to match the ones they’d already bestowed upon him.

_"If you're not good I'm going to rip you open again.  
I'll carve you so fuckin' deep you'll never be able to walk again._

Just remembering those words stopped the breath in his throat. It hadn’t been the Kray brother’s who’d said them, but someone he’d trusted, someone who’d betrayed him without a seconds pause.

In the dream, just as it had been in reality, Kent hadn’t fought. He’d stood with his face pressed against the wall. _Good boy_. Did everything they told him to. _Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir_. Didn’t put up a fight.

None of it mattered though. None of it ever did.

In the dream, he’d been striped again. And again. And then--

Tears of frustration prickled at his eyes even as he tried to calm himself down, but nothing he tried helped. By the time the hall light was flipped on and the sound of Chandler’s footsteps against the laminate reached his ears, Kent’s face was wet with tears, his body trembling as if in shock.

“Emerson?” Chandler was at his side an instant later, hands hovering over him but not-quite touching.

 _I’m all right_. He wanted to say. _I just need a moment_. But instead of words another sobbing hiccup sounded. He shook his head, fingers moving from his knees to clench at his hair, nails digging deep against the flesh at the root.

Chandler touched him then, and even though Kent jerked bodily away from the feel of his hands against his wrists, he didn’t let go.

“I can’t-,” Kent tried, teeth clenching against his own words as he tipped his head up to look at Chandler, wrenching successfully against Chandler’s grip. Kent immediately wrapped his arms back around himself.

“Emerson, you’re okay. I promise. I’m here, and I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise, Emerson. I promise. Okay?” Chandler repeated the words over and over, a mantra that eventually pierced through the panic gripping Kent.

He sucked in a deep breath, sagging forward to press his head against his knees again.

“‘M sorry,” he breathed. The words a scratch against his throat.

“Don’t apologise,” Chandler touched at his head this time, fingers running lightly through his sweat-dampened strands without hesitation. Kent didn’t flinch away from the contact this time.

“Are they always this bad?” Chandler asked after a moment.

Kent kept his eyes closed. His head hurt, his mind thick with grief and terror and pain. He shrugged noncommittally. _Yes. No. Sometimes_. Answering would just invite more questions, questions he didn’t think he could handle right now.

Bad enough he’d fallen asleep and had his fear of Chandler seeing him in this state from some damn dream happen, he didn’t dare imagine what sort of state Chandler would see him in if he was forced to actually talk about the whole thing.

Chandler shifted from his crouch in front of him, his hand leaving Kent’s head as he repositioned himself on the couch beside him.

“May I put my arms around you?” Chandler asked this time.

Kent turned his head against his knees. Chandler was watching him carefully, his gaze sincere as he opened his arms in invitation. Kent hesitated, warring with himself momentarily before he twisted around and pressed himself against Chandler’s side.

Chandler’s arms came immediately around him, holding him close. “Do you want to talk about it?”

When Kent didn’t answer Chandler didn't press him, just breathed a soft _'okay_ ' against his crown and tightened his hold. Instead of feeling constricted by the embrace, Kent felt safe. Maybe even the safest he'd ever felt since the whole Kray investigation began. Safest certainly since the last time Chandler held him close.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, his fingers finding a tight grip on Chandler’s t-shirt. He didn’t think it was possible for Chandler to hold him any closer but somehow he managed, encouraging Kent to curl gratefully into him. He turned his face up to press into Chandler’s neck, breathing heavily against his skin.

“It’s going to be okay,” Chandler whispered. Kent clenched his eyes closed, wishing he could let himself believe him. “I promise.”

The last thing Kent was aware of before treacherous sleep claimed him once more was the soft press of Chandler’s mouth against his forehead.


	2. made of scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Kray-related case comes to Whitechapel, Kent has some trouble coping._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **}** [37stitches @ livejournal](http://cs-whitewolf.livejournal.com/351804.html)  
>  **}** [37stitches @ tumblr](http://campaspe.tumblr.com/tagged/on-writing%3A-37stitches)

The rain continued into the next morning and Kent woke to the sound of it, heavier than the night before, hitting against the glass of the balcony doors. The blinds had been left partially opened and a grim grey light slipped its way in-between the slates.

It was an almost foreign feeling to wake up and know, even half-asleep, where he was and who (if anyone) was in the room with him. It had been so long since he’d slept and woken with anything but nightmares and panic. Even when he was able to catch a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, waking was always with a jolt, his fight or flight reflex kicking in in the seconds before disorientation gave way to recognition.

He blinked slowly, feeling warm and strangely rested. He took a moment to relax into the sensation, relishing the heat of Chandler’s body beneath his own. He closed his eyes once more, imagining he could hear Chandler’s heart beating from where his head rested upon his shoulder.

He wasn’t sure if they’d repositioned themselves in their sleep, or if Chandler had laid them down together once Kent had fallen asleep, but they were lying on the couch now, and Kent could feel the weight of Chandler’s arm as it curled loosely around his waist, his hand resting high enough to still feel comfortable. His own arm lay possessively across Chandler’s chest, his fingers scrunched in the fabric of his sleep-shirt.

The light creeping its way in through the slates, though still dull and dreary, steadily began to strengthen as morning broke across London. Kent tightened his fingers, knowing that it would soon be time to get up and let go of this moment. Knowing that he should probably get up now and save them both the embarrassment of being caught wrapped around one another, but… he didn’t. He just squeezed his eyes more tightly closed and wished he could hold onto this moment forever.

Eventually though, Chandler began to shift beneath him, and Kent lifted his head up to look at him, watching as Chandler gradually began to wake. His eyes were still closed, his mouth slightly parted and slack, his hair an uncharacteristic disarray. Kent’s fingers twitched at the thought of reaching up to run his hand through it. He smiled instead, biting at the insides of his mouth to keep that smile from spreading too wide as Chandler’s eyes finally blinked open. He didn’t seem all that surprised to find Kent lying atop him, and didn’t stop the soft smile turning his own lips at the sight of him either.

“Good morning,” he greeted, his voice rough.

“Morning,” Kent returned, feeling his heart lurch, his cheeks heating a little with a mix of pleasure and embarrassment.

Chandler frowned at him then. It was the barest creasing of his brow, but Kent froze at the mere sight of it, immediately chastising himself for not getting up the second he’d woken. It was on the tip of his tongue then to apologise for what had transpired the previous night, for waking Chandler and him having to deal with Kent in the after-throws of a nightmare, for falling asleep on him and in turn forcing Chandler to sleep on the couch beside him. How uncomfortable he must have made him. What a position to have put him in!

Just as Kent opened his mouth to speak, however, Chandler lifted his free hand and reached out to touch at his head, his fingers stroking themselves lightly through his hair almost exactly as Kent had imagined himself doing to Chandler.

“You have bed hair.” Chandler said, his frown more curious than censorious, as if the very thought of it puzzled him.

That startled a laugh out of Kent, relief almost painful as it flooded through him, dispelling his burgeoning mortification at the memory of the night before.

He shook his head, unable to hide his smile. Chandler dropped his hand a moment later, but squeezed gently at Kent’s waist with the arm curled around him.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, not quite grinning. Kent nodded, reluctantly pushing himself into an upright position, knowing if he didn’t move now he may never move at all. His waist felt immediately cold when Chandler’s arm fell away.

“Yeah, I did. Thanks.” He said, pulling his knees up to his chest and ignoring the uncomfortable stretching of skin the movement caused. It was a protective gesture he knew, but he offered Chandler another smile to enforce the truth of his words. It was one of the best nights sleep he’d had in too long, the nightmarish prologue notwithstanding.

Chandler sat himself up, running his hands through his own hair and fluffing it carelessly into even more of a disarray before he scrubbed them over his face in an attempt to wake himself up more fully.

“Coffee?” He offered, standing without waiting for a reply. Kent heard the clicking of a few joints as he moved, watching as Chandler stretched out his back as he shuffled over towards the kitchen in a pair of red tartan printed pyjama bottoms and a white vest top. His feet were bare.

Kent looked quickly away, pressing his face into his knees for a moment. He turned back when he heard the tap being run, the sound of cupboard doors opening, the clink of teaspoons against ceramic. Chandler was moving around the kitchen with practiced ease, his motions sure and swift. Kent took a moment to appreciate the sight. He looked so relaxed, so… so unlike the Chandler he knew from work.

He looked… at home. He looked… Kent frowned at himself, eyes running over how _natural_ Chandler looked. This wasn’t the boss he idolised at work, or the suit he imitated, this wasn’t the man he always aimed to please, this was Chandler, this was _Joseph, Joe._ This was a side of the man Kent had never seen before, never had the opportunity to see before. A side Kent was sure he didn’t share with many other people.

The thought left him feeling equally gifted and guilty, wondering if Chandler would ever have let him get this close before now. _Before…_

Kent clamped quickly down on that line of thinking. He pushed himself to his own feet then, biting back the wince as the skin around his stripings pinched and pulled a little more. He needed to clean himself up, take his pills, psych himself up for another day of stepping out of the front door.

He took a deep breath, carefully stretching himself up onto his tip-toes, arms reaching towards the ceiling. There were some exercises he was meant to do, to help stop his scars from tightening too much, to help prevent his sciatic nerve from getting trapped and shooting shocks of pain through his leg for hours on end. He dropped back to his feet, arms falling to his sides as he self-consciously looked over towards Chandler.

He wasn’t looking, but Kent still felt more than a little insecure at the idea of doing anything that related to his striping in front of Chandler. The nightmares were one thing, a subconscious response to his constantly toiling emotions, but his scars were quite another; too real and visual, a physical wound everyone knew about but no one ever talked about and he was more than keen to keep the focus away from them.

He felt an almost overwhelming desire to wash and dress then, to layer himself up as he’d been doing for the last few months. An unsettling sense of vulnerability washed over him as he stood, bare-foot and in his pyjamas, in the middle of Chandler’s living room.

He moved quickly, pausing only long enough to grab up his bag before stepping across the room. Chandler turned immediately from where he was fiddling with the coffee machine, his smile giving way to concern at whatever look was currently playing across Kent’s face.

“Emerson?” he asked, stepping up to the island between them.

“I need to use your shower,” Kent said, visibly wincing at his own words, the tone needy and desperate.

“Of course,” Chandler agreed without hesitation, without question. He stepped around the island, gesturing for Kent to follow him down the hall, past the bathroom he’d used the night before, past a closed door he assumed was the second bedroom Chandler was using as a personal study, and into the room at the end.

Chandler’s room.

The beside lamp was still alight, the bed sheets rumpled and thrown back; they both stopped at the sight.

“Sorry about the mess,” Chandler said, turning to him and looking genuinely apologetic.

“Sorry for last night.” Kent blurted at the same time.

They stared at each other for a long moment before simultaneously turning away. Kent let his eyes drift back to Chandler’s bed. He bit at his mouth. Even with the bed unmade, the duvet thrown back in a rumpled mess, the room still looked more like a hotel than a bedroom. Everything else was neat, tidy, in its place.

There was a book on the nightstand nearest what Kent assumed was Chandler’s preferred side of the bed. A half-empty glass of water sat beside it along with a pair of reading glasses Kent was sure he’d never seen Chandler wear. On the other side there sat only a framed photograph, a picture of a boy with two smiling adults Kent assumed where his parents. He knew about Chandler’s father, most people did, but he’d never heard anything about his mother.

He looked away, clutching at his bag. He couldn’t see any other sign of personality in the room, nothing else uniquely _Chandler_. The room was done in earthy tones; the built in cupboards made of a dark wood, the furnishings in various shades of green and cream. The blinds in Chandler’s room were also partially open, giving a glimpse through to the same balcony he’d seen from the living room.

Chandler cleared his throat, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck.

“The shower is just through here,” he said, gesturing to an open door on the other side of the room which led through to the en suite bathroom. He stepped in first, flicking the lights on.

The first thing Kent noticed was that the earthy tones continued through into the room. The second thing he noticed was the shower, and that it was made entirely of glass. The thought of standing in there, naked, with nothing but steam and soap suds to cover him made his stomach quiver and his heart quicken.

“Use whatever you need,” Chandler said, turning to pull a fresh towel from one of the cupboards and hanging it on the rail beside the shower.

Kent found himself clutching desperately at his bag as Chandler turned back towards him.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked. Kent shook his head, swallowing back a grimace as he tried to smile his thanks.

Chandler hesitated, looking unsure. He opened his mouth as if to ask but stopped himself, seeming to think better of it. He nodded once at Kent before turning and leaving the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

Kent wasted no time in rushing over and turning the lock with a resounding _click_. But even standing there, alone, with nothing but his heartbeat ringing in his ears, Kent still felt uncomfortably as though someone would see him.

It was stupid, he knew, his eyes darting from one end of the en suite to the other. He was alone, the door was locked, what did it matter that the damn shower was made of glass? That he couldn’t pull a curtain around it and cocoon himself in its imagined barrier between himself and the rest of the world, preventing anyone else from ever seeing him again, from seeing and judging him, from recoiling in horror and disgust?

His eyes began to prickle. He knuckled at them, digging in until they burned with something other than tears of self-pity. His panic slowly gave way to anger and he latched onto it with grasping fingers as he dropped his bag onto the counter beside the sink and moved to turn the shower on as hot as it would go.

He didn’t have time for this. For this panic and fear over something so stupid. He’d already let Chandler see him freak out over some bad dreams, he really didn’t want him to see Kent freaking out over his damn shower. No one was going to see him. No one _wanted_ to see him.

He raked his hands through his hair, nails scratching across his scalp and biting into his flesh. His heart was still hammering, slamming against his ribcage as though to escape. Kent sucked in a deep breath, digging his nails in a little deeper and focussing on the discomfort it caused.

The shower was steaming heavily. Kent could barely see the taps on the other side. He sucked in another breath, and another. There was blood on his fingertips when he pulled his hands away, but he ignored it. He could do this.

With his eyes fixed firmly on the taps, he stripped himself with shaking hands, his body shivering despite the humid warmth filling the room. There was a seconds hesitation, his fingers clawed into the waistband of his boxers, where he considered stepping in without removing them. Only the thought of having to explain that if anyone found them in his bag at work…

He shucked them almost angrily. A horrible whimpering sound spilling from his lips as he stepped out of them. He wrapped his arms around himself, forcing one foot in front of the next until he was at and then inside the shower. The water was too hot and Kent let the shock of it override the fear fogging his mind as he fumbled for the taps and turned it to a more bearable temperature.

His face was wet before he ducked his head beneath the spray.

 - - -

Kent sipped at the coffee Chandler had made for him, warming his hands against the ceramic mug. He stood at the balcony doors, watching rain water drip down from the balcony above Chandler’s own. Though the sky was dreary and overcast, the view was more than a little amazing, with a clear view over a section of the Thames. Kent didn’t dare to speculate over the cost of living in a place like this, he could never dream of affording something so upmarket.

He thought about the pokey flat he shared with three other people, how messy and loud it always was and he smiled wryly to himself, Chandler would probably hate it. He remembered how he’d been the first time he’d started in Whitechapel, how he’d shuddered at the sight of their rubbish lying all over the place, of how scruffy they all were and how untidy the whole place had been. He’d been glad of the change. Of a reason to change.

He heard the shower in Chandler’s room turn off, the apartment falling into silence once more save for the sound of the rain outside. Kent clutched his mug closer. He’d spent longer than he should have in the shower, but Chandler hadn’t said a word when he’d finally emerged, skin flushed and eyes downcast. He’d simply nudged over a fresh cup of coffee when Kent reached the island along with a plate of toast before leaving to get himself ready for work.

Kent had gratefully accepted the coffee and blatantly ignored the toast. He’d worked himself up too much in the shower to even consider eating anything. And though acidic, he knew he could stomach the coffee, that he needed it even. The thought of eating just left him nauseous.

He swallowed thickly. Why did he keep doing this to himself? One traumatic event in his life and he was lucky if he could get himself to function day by day months down the line.

“Not hungry?” Chandler asked, as he came back through.

“No, thank you.” Kent said, not turning.

He heard Chandler move, then the sound of the plate being lifted from the counter and what he presumed was the thump of the toast landing in the bin. He winced internally before tensing as Chandler finished and moved towards him.

“Emerson,” Chandler called. Kent clutched his mug tighter, hunching his shoulders.

Chandler sighed. “I don’t know what’s happened, but if I’ve done something to make you feel uncomfortable-,”

“What? No-,” Kent hurried to stop him, turning towards him with wide eyes.

“To offend you?” Chandler tried.

Kent shook his head. “You haven’t!”

Chandler frowned, hands flinching nervously at his sides. “Are you sure?”

“You haven’t done anything, Joe,” he promised. “God I’m so sorry.”

“You’re sorry? For what?” Chandler asked, surprised.

“For… this,” he gestured between them, forcing himself to meet Chandler’s eyes. “For making you feel like you’ve got anything to apologise for. It’s just me. I’m…” he shook his head, trailing off. Chandler waited and Kent found himself continuing despite himself.

“I’m just not in a good place right now,” he let his eyes slide away. “My head- just, it’s nothing you’ve done, okay? It happens now, since…” he shook his head. “I just need a bit of time to… to build everything back up again, okay?”

“Okay,” Chandler agreed, still frowning. “Will you be alright?”

Kent laughed at the question, the sound short and bitter. He’d like to know the answer to that one too.

“Do you need to take today off?” Chandler asked then and despite knowing that Chandler only asked the question out of concern, Kent found himself reacting badly to the words, turning on Chandler with a desperation masked as anger.

“I can still do my job!” He vehemently bit out.

Chandler looked shocked. “I never said you couldn’t.”

Kent glared. “You don’t have to, I know what you meant!”

“Emerson-,”

“This is why I didn’t want to say anything,” he interrupted, pushing past Chandler. He tried not to slam his mug down when he reached the island but the sound of the ceramic hitting the counter was loud and ringing. “Shit,” he swore at both the situation and his actions. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” he breathed, placing his hands on the ledge and gripping tightly. He was shaking.

“Emerson!” It was almost a shout and Kent flinched, turning quickly as Chandler advanced. “Do not mistake my concern for your wellbeing as my having ulterior motives. I wouldn’t do either of us the injustice.”

There was a light flush on his cheeks, irritation shining in his eyes. Kent felt the flush in his own cheeks, hot and violent, but already his anger was giving way to shame.

“I asked you a question,” Chandler continued in a softer voice, going so far as to reach out towards Kent. He stood tense and watchful as Chandler took his hand gently. “It was not an order.”

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. Chandler squeezed at his hand once before letting go.

“I thought you would have trusted me not to use this against you?” Chandler asked.

Kent bit at the insides of his mouth. Hard. “I- I do trust you.”

Chandler narrowed his eyes. “Then, answer me honestly, do you need to take today off?”

There was blood in his mouth. He shook his head, swallowing heavily. “No, sir.”

It was Chandler’s turn to shake his head. Disappointment flashing across his face. “I’m not your boss outside of work, Emerson.”

“Then what are you?” The words were out before Kent could think to censor them.

“I would have thought your friend,” Chandler said, stepping back, his face closing off. Kent felt as though he’d put miles between them in that moment and his heart stuttered on its next beat. Chandler turned away then and Kent opened his mouth only for nothing to come out.

“Wash your mug,” Chandler said, moving towards the hallway.

“Joe-,” he breathed.

“Let me know you’re ready to leave.” Chandler didn’t acknowledge his call as he stepped into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

 - - -

The drive into work was quiet and more awkward possibly than the drive from work the previous night had been. He’d offended Chandler, in every possible way, and he had no idea how to fix that. He wanted to apologise, to explain, but he didn’t know where to start. How do you tell someone that having to take a shower almost threw you into a panic? That that’s how screwed up you’d become? That that’s why everything had changed between them in the space of a morning?

He could still picture Chandler’s sleeping face, the way his eyes had blinked sleepily at him, the way he’d smiled at seeing Kent lying there beside him…

He turned his head to look out the side window. Feeling that tell-tale prickling touching at his eyes.

He couldn’t bear the thought of Chandler looking at him the way he looked at himself, the way he imagined everyone would look at him if they knew just how badly he was handling everything. He’d tried to tell Chandler the night before that he needed to work, that he needed the distraction and the order to keep his mind from running ragged circles around his head. That it didn’t matter how bad things got he had to know he still had his job waiting for him.

He hadn’t meant to doubt Chandler, to jump to the one conclusion he feared above all others, but Chandler had hurt him before and there was a part of him that felt poised upon a precipice, just waiting for the next knife in the back, that extra nudge that would tip him over the edge. Fingering him as the mole had been a logical conclusion at the time, but the betrayal still stung, still played on his mind and filled him with terror. What if he revealed too much? What if he didn’t reveal enough? Would Chandler use it against him? He didn’t like to think he would but still, the doubt, it lingered there at the back of his mind whispering vicious fears to him.

_“I thought you would have trusted me not to use this against you?”_

_“I- I do trust you.”_

He could still taste the hesitancy upon his tongue, still see the look in Chandler’s eyes as the words stumbled from his lips. He clenched his teeth together, eyes wide and blinking against another prickling wave.

 _Please no_ , he silently begged himself. _Not here. Not now._ He lifted his hand, pressing his fingers against his eyes, trying to push those traitorous tears back.

The car came to a slow stop. Kent heard the crunch of the hand-brake being applied, the sound of the engine turning off. He pulled his hand away, wiping his fingertips against his trousers.

Chandler turned towards him, Kent could see him from the corner of his eye. His chest felt too tight. He couldn’t do this. Not now.

He scrabbled for his seatbelt, one leg out the door before it had even fully unlocked, but somehow he managed. The rain had never felt so good. He closed the car door behind him, sucking in a shuddering breath before he heard Chandler open his own door.

Kent was half-way towards the front doors before Chandler was even out of his car. He didn’t have a plan, other than to avoid Chandler, and maybe find a bathroom to finish freaking out in, when Miles stepped out from under one of the alcoves, bringing Kent to a sudden stop.

“Serg.” He blurted, surprised.

“Kent,” Miles said, his look suspicious as he turned from him to… “Joe.”

Chandler came to a hurried stop beside him.

“Miles,” Chandler greeted, pleasantly enough. His gaze flickering momentarily towards Kent before he turned his attention back onto his DS. “You’re here early?”

“Got a case,” Miles said, poker-faced as he looked again between Kent and Chandler again. Kent shifted, turning the collar of his jacket up against the rain with one hand whilst clenching his fingers into the leather of his bag with the other. He didn’t like the way Miles was looking between them.

“When?” Chandler asked. “Why wasn’t I notified?”

“It’s only just come through. Floater in the river.” He said, nonchalantly.

“Suicide?” Chandler asked, ignoring Miles’ behaviour entirely.

“More than likely.” Miles agreed.

Chandler shifted, lifting an arm to take a look at his watch. “Right. Okay. Can you call Mansell, have him meet us-,”

“Before that,” Miles interrupted, “I’d like a word?”

Kent didn’t think it sounded like a question. Neither did Chandler if the way he seemed to freeze on the spot was anything to go by.

“Right now?” He asked, pointedly.

“If it’s all the same to you.” Miles agreed, turning and leading the way into the precinct without waiting for his response.

Chandler slanted another look at him but Kent kept his eyes resolutely forward. They stood another moment in the rain before Chandler seemed to remember himself and hurried in after Miles without a word.

On second thought, maybe he would just stay out here and drown himself in the rain.

It felt like one of those days.

 - - -

It was clear the body had been in the river for more than a few days. When the team arrived on scene it had been dragged from the water and lay, a bloated, swollen mass of flesh upon the shore, a forensics tent erected overhead to preserve what evidence still remained.

Dr Llewellyn was crouched at the head, but stood to meet them, offering them a grim smile. “Well, the victim is male and been in the water for at least forty-eight hours. I can’t say much else yet.”

“But?” Miles prompted, hearing something in her tone.

“But,” Llewellyn sighed, “I don’t think we can rule out homicide straight away.”  
                                                                                                    
“What makes you say that?” Chandler asked, his surprise clear. It was rare they got a floater that wasn’t either an intentional suicide or an accidental drowning. The thought that they could have a bona fide murder on their hands, though not something to be thankful for by any means, at least meant the hours spent investigating and filing paperwork were worth it all the more if they could catch a killer.

Beside him, Mansell nudged Kent, a grin on his face. Kent rolled his eyes, but shuffled a little closer, trying to see into the tent from their position behind Chandler and Miles. Kent could feel the rain beginning to seep past the collar of his coat and shifted against the wet press of fabric against his neck.

“I can’t be sure of course…” Llewellyn started and Kent watched as she pressed her lips together, angling her body to the side so that the view to the victim’s head was clear.

“There’s what appears to be some very violent slashing to the face. I can see evidence of scarring, but most of the skin appears to have been ripped off, either before or during submersion.”

Kent felt a wave of nausea roll over him as his view into the tent became unobstructed, with Miles bending down for a closer look. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, his skin feeling suddenly too tight around him; itchy and cold and about to split at the seams.

“That’s Dan.” He said, surprised to hear himself speak. The skin around the man’s face was all but hanging off in pale, flaccid strips. One of the eye sockets was empty, the other eye was closed but so swollen Kent couldn’t be sure there was anything to see beneath it. He should have been unrecognisable, but Kent knew exactly who the man behind those strips of torn flesh had been.

“Kent?” Miles questioned, looking up at him.

At the same time, Chandler asked: “You know him?”

They were both frowning at him. Kent tried to shake his head. _Not exactly_ , he wanted to say, but didn’t. He could feel Chandler’s eyes on him.

“Dan Street.” He managed, unable to tear his eyes away from the body. That face was going to be the next thing to haunt his dreams he knew. He felt his stomach roll again, bile acidic and hot as it crept its way up his oesophagus.

“Dan Street, Dan Street,” Mansell started repeating the name like it was some kind of mantra. “Now why does that name sound familiar?”

“He was one of the Kray’s victims.” Miles said then, and Kent got the impression he’d realised it the second Kent had said his first name.

Things went suddenly quiet and Kent could feel them all turning to stare at him.

“Excuse me,” he managed to mutter before turning and stumbling his way from the tent. His ears were ringing. He felt hot but shivery, his skin goose-bumping up as he tried to get himself as far away from the scene as possible. His body felt leaden, foreign, his lungs burning for air, his stomach threatening to rebel its contents.

He flinched, violently, at the hand that took hold of his upper arm, jerking at it until Miles snapped at him to calm down.

He stopped, immediately. Focussing on the too-tight grip of Miles’ hand.

“Just breathe,” Miles said.

“I’m fine,” Kent muttered through pained gasps.

Miles shot him a pointed look. “Sure you are,” he patronisingly agreed. “You look like you’re about to pass out but you’re fine. Bend over a little more, hands on your knees, there you go.”

“I can look after myself,” Kent defended, but he didn’t argue as Miles manhandled him. His heart was thumping in his ears, but his breathing was coming a little easier. Miles tightened his grip fractionally.

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” Miles agreed, pleasantly.

“Don’t,” Kent bit out. His skin felt clammy now, cold and sweaty. He rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing.

“Don’t what?” Kent turned his head enough to look at his Sergeant, to see the worry on his face even as he affected a calm disinterest.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kent muttered, dropping his eyes to his shoes. He clenched his fingers in the fabric of his trousers, wet and clinging from the rain. “I’m not weak.” He said, but it was for him more than Miles.

“I know you’re not,” Miles agreed again. “But it is my right as your Serg to look at you however I like, especially when we’re on a case like this.”

Kent shook his head but didn’t answer.

“You think we’re gonna look at you differently now?” Miles asked.

“You already do.” Kent said, meeting his eyes. “Ever since I came back you do.”

“Yeah,” Miles agreed. Kent blinked up at him, shocked at the honesty. “You think you’re pulling the wool over our eyes, Kent, but you forget we’re detectives, the lot of us.”

Kent felt another wave of nausea roll over him. Miles continued: “But if you think we’re gonna look at you differently for how you’ve reacted to seeing Dan’s body, then you’re wrong.”

Miles shook his arm a little, forcing Kent to look at him again. “You’re not weak, Kent. Don’t care what anyone else thinks or says, you’re not. You’re a kid who’s been through a lot, but you’re a fighter and you haven’t given up yet.” Miles raised his eyebrows at him and Kent nodded, straightening a little.

“Even the best of us fumble on the way back from personal trauma,” he continued, shooting Kent a pointed look. “You forget I had a panic attack when I saw a body for the first time after the Ripper case.”

“I- yeah. I’d forgotten,” Kent admitted, guiltily. Not that Miles had been stabbed, he’d never forget that, but that his Sergeant hadn’t been completely okay upon his return to work, that he’d still struggled with the memory, the trauma of having almost died on the job. He’d faked it so well, taken the ribbings and given back as good as he’d gotten. He’d worked just as hard as he had before and gradually… gradually it became something that had happened… not something that was _happening_. Not like Kent and his inability to let go of the Krays and what they’d done to him.

“I know.” Instead of being offended, Miles offered him a gruff smile. “And before too long we’ll forget about your striping too, but not before you let yourself forget first.”

“How do I do that?” Kent found himself asking, desperation leaking into his words. Miles squeezed at his arm a final time before letting go and Kent straightened himself all the way.

“You’ve got to find something else to focus on.” Miles said, turning. Kent followed on shaky legs as Miles began to walk back to where they’d parked. “If all you’re thinking about is what happened to you, it’ll be the only thing you can think about. No chance then to forget, to move on.”

It wasn’t that easy. He’d been trying for months to forget. But every time he had to undress, to touch himself _there_ , he remembered. Every time his skin stretched too tight, every time his sciatic nerve caught and smarted, he remembered. Every time he closed his eyes, praying for a dreamless sleep, some new Kray-related horror played across his vision.

How did you forget something that never left you?

Miles didn’t offer any more words of wisdom, and Kent was left feeling just as sick and shaken as he had before.

 - - -

Nobody said anything about his reaction when they finally made it back to the precinct. He avoided Chandler’s stare, denying him the opportunity to start a conversation neither of them wanted to have with Miles and Mansell around. Miles clapped him on the back before moving off to speak with Chandler in his office once again, and Mansell? Well, Mansell didn’t so much as _hint_ that Kent had had a freak out, even going so far as to ignore him in favour of the paperwork strewn across his desk. If anything the lack of acknowledgement just made the whole incident all the more obvious.

Was Kent’s behaviour really that transparent? He’d tried so hard to keep what had happened to him from affecting his work. Yes, he came in sleep deprived. Yes, he stayed late too many nights. Yes, he got defensive if anyone asked him how he was feeling. But what else? What gave it away to Chandler and Miles and even Mansell that Kent wasn’t entirely okay?

He looked over towards Mansell’s desk, watching as he quickly ducked his head to avoiding looking at him. Kent turned back, his eyes drifting up to the glass window, looking into Chandler’s office only to find Chandler’s eyes on him already. He looked away first, lifting a case-file he’d left on his desk and staring at the printed pages without really seeing them. His skin prickled with the sensation of being watched.

The phone in Chandler’s office rang and Kent looked up at the sound, even though he couldn’t hear the conversation. Miles came out a second later, looking between Mansell and himself a moment before gesturing to Mansell to follow him. They left the room without a word.

When Kent looked back up at Chandler’s office, it was to see Chandler applying his Tiger Balm, fingers massaging at his temples.

Kent felt his heart start up a staccato beat. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t want to do this.

He dropped the file he’d been holding and stood, shaking out his right leg as the cold muscles momentarily cramped, before also leaving the room. He thought he caught the sound of his name before the door to the Incident Room closed behind him, but it was easy enough to pretend he hadn’t.

He hadn’t planned to go down to the morgue, but that’s where he found himself. Dr Llewellyn looked up as he entered the room, smiling sadly at him. Kent offered her a twitch of a smile in return.

“I don’t have much else to tell you,” she said, turning her attention back to the body on the table. Kent kept his eyes focussed on a point above her head.

“I’m not really…” He drifted off, gesturing vaguely.

Llewellyn hummed as if understanding. “You were right,” she said, not looking up. “This is Dan Street. I found his ID in one of his socks.”

Kent leant back against the wall. It wasn’t the strangest place someone had ever kept their ID. He crossed his arms tightly around himself.

“I should let the others know,” he said, voice rough.

Llewellyn looked up then. “I called up a few minutes ago,” she said carefully.

Miles and Mansell. Kent nodded, ignoring her curious stare. Were they off to speak with the family now? Why hadn’t Miles said anything? Didn’t he think Kent could handle the information? He’d been the one to suggest it was Dan Street in the first place. It wasn’t as though the confirmation could have him reacting any worse than seeing the body had.

He found himself looking at it despite himself. There was a sheet over most of the body now, preserving whatever dignity still remained. The head was uncovered. The jaw pulled wide as Llewellyn worked on something inside his mouth. It looked almost unreal. The Screaming Man; pale and gaunt, the skin of his face shredded so deeply he could see through to muscle.

He wondered if that would happen to him. If he was found in the water after too many days. Would his own scars split open like rotten fruit? Would the skin just peel apart leaving him a gaping, raw, mess once again?

Llewellyn finished whatever she was doing and carefully closed the mouth. Kent heard the teeth click and found himself clenching his own together. He swallowed heavily, feeling a familiar flush of warmth wash over him. His stomach rolled and he turned without a word and left the room.

He made it into the first bathroom he found, knees hitting cold tile a second before his stomach contents hit the porcelain of the toilet bowl.

 - - -

Kent left on time that night. More or less. For the first time since before the Kray investigation had even begun. Mansell had already left and Miles was packing up for the day, his jacket already on. There wasn’t much else to stay for in terms of the case, and Kent knew he’d have to actually talk to Chandler if he stayed late again. Not that he wanted to. Stay late. Today had been hell enough, even before they’d gotten to work.

Miles and Mansell had returned to the Incident Room some time around lunch, and with the visit to the family they had somewhere else to start while the body was being examined. It was almost like old times then, with Chandler pinning a picture of the victim to the whiteboard and the rest of them filling in the blanks as Chandler needed them.

Only the picture he pinned up was one taken before Dan’s attack by the Kray brothers. It showed him as he’d been before his slashing; all dark haired and blue eyed, with a strong jaw and a cheeky smile. He looked young. And happy. Ridiculously so. Kent didn’t imagine he had much to be happy about after his attack.

A second picture, smaller, taken from his hospital records, showed him as he’d been pre and post reconstructive surgery. They’d tried to save as much of the face as possible but the scars were thick and deep. They’d never fade. They’d never stop reminding him about what happened. They’d never stop reminding everyone else about what happened either.

He’d never filed a police report for the attack, despite his parents urging. Despite _Miles’_ urging at the time too.

His parents had been the ones to file the missing persons report for him though. He’d gone out one evening, they’d said, he only ever went out at night now, when it was too late or too early for anyone else to really be around, to _see_. He’d gone out and he hadn’t come back. Hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t left a note. He just hadn’t come back.

It was obvious that he was a severely depressed young man; antidepressants, anti-anxieties, analgesics, the man was on a cocktail of drugs topped off with booze whenever he could get it. His girlfriend had left him, they’d said. They couldn’t blame her. Even if he wasn’t scarred for life, he’d changed so much, he wasn’t the same boy he used to be. He hadn’t gone back to work. Had stopped communicating with his friends. They’d tried, they really had, but nothing they did seemed to help, to get through to them. If anything it only served to push him away, to send him to his room where he slept the days away when he wasn’t drinking or out walking.

“How do you help someone who doesn’t want to be helped?” Miles finished, almost musing the words as they stood around the whiteboard, eyes scanning the details already up.

He shouldn’t, but Kent couldn’t help but feel as though the words were aimed towards him. He stared at Dan’s face, seeing his smile and wishing that it had been anyone else, any _thing_ else, any other case, but his.

Everything about this screamed suicide, but until Dr Llewellyn got back to them with her findings they had to treat it like any other case. And that meant finding out everything they could about Dan Street, every little detail, every person he knew, who knew him, where he went the nights he went out, where he went the night he didn’t come home, and ultimately, how he ended up in the river.

It was almost like looking into a very distorted mirror of what his life could have been like. And Kent didn’t like it one bit.

The decision to leave without prompting that night was an easy one. The door had barely closed behind Miles before Kent was up out of his chair and shrugging his jacket on. He hesitated a long moment, eyes flickering up to Chandler’s office and watching as his DI flicked through a few papers. He was frowning, one hand pressing his fingers against his temple in a hard massage.

Kent bit his lip and then bit the bullet and stepped around his desk. He knocked lightly at the door frame, not-quite meeting Chandler’s eyes when he looked up with surprise to see Kent standing there.

“Kent,” he said, dropping his hand to the desk and turning his full attention onto him.

Kent folded his arms across his chest. “Just wanted to let you know I’m off for the night, sir.” He said. “Miles and Mansell have already left.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Chandler’s hands twitched as if he were about to reach for something. Kent watched as he clasped them together instead. “Do you-,” he hesitated, Kent tensed. “Do you need a lift?”

“No,” he shook his head too quickly, stopped. Took a deep breath. “No thank you,” he tried, eyes flicking up. Chandler made no attempt to hide his concern as he stared back at him.

“Kent I-,”

“I just wanted-,”

They both started, then stopped, smiling awkwardly, looking away.

“I wanted to apologise,” Chandler said as the silence ticked away between them.

“So did I,” Kent breathed, looking up nervously.

Chandler smiled again. It was a sad turn of his mouth and Kent returned it.

“Then we’ll leave it at that for now.” Chandler said and Kent felt himself deflate with relief.

“Thank you,” he managed and Chandler nodded once more before turning his attention back towards his paperwork. Kent slipped out of the room without another word.

He barely remembered getting home. Probably wasn’t in any fit state to be riding his bike along the wet streets of London, but he made it in one piece. And he supposed that was all that mattered.

His flatmates had already left for the night and Kent found himself relieved by this fact as he trudged up to his room and closed the door behind him. It meant no questions about where he was last night. No badgering to go out with them tonight. No sly comments about whether he’d be waking them all later or not.

Kent didn’t bother with the light as he dumped his bag on his bed, ruffling through it for his pyjamas. He stripped and changed almost mechanically before crawling beneath his duvet and cocooning himself under the weight of it. 

He didn’t plan to go to sleep, he just needed the peace and quiet to not-think, to settle his broiling emotions.

He just had to take a moment to put everything back, to build up his walls again, and then he’d be good to go, for another day at least.

He could deal with Dan Street’s case, and Miles’s concern and Mansell’s stares, he could deal with Chandler, with this thing between them. Whatever it was.

He just needed a moment.

 - - -

The following days and nights followed a similar pattern, with Kent coming in, working on the Street case, and going home to cocoon himself away from the rest of the world, trying to forget everything he was learning about Dan Street, trying to ignore how similar their lives had been since their attacks by the Kray brothers. But try as he might, he just couldn’t forget about it.

How could he ever have wished to be slashed someplace else? After seeing the kinds of things the Kray brothers had been willing to do to a person, how could he ever have thought a couple scars on his arse was _anything_ worth complaining about compared to the horror Dan and their other victims had been forced to endure every day since?

Kent could hide his scars, but Dan didn’t have that luxury. Couldn’t cover himself up in layers, couldn’t fake a smile and pretend like his whole world hadn’t just ended, like his entire life hadn’t been ripped from him just as surely as his face had been.

It kind of put things into perspective, even if it didn’t make accepting things any easier for him. For the first time though he was… almost grateful that his attack hadn’t been worse. It didn’t stop the nauseas feeling he got when he had to look at or touch his scars. It didn’t stop the nightmares that came when he tried to sleep (if anything they were worse since discovering Dan’s body). It didn’t stop him from thinking about the Krays, about what they did, about how even with them both dead the memory of them was still haunting him.

Dr Llewellyn presented them with her findings three days into their investigation and everyone breathed a sigh of relief as the verdict came back as suicide. She started talking about his face and how the skin had still been weak from reconstruction and how that along with the fish feeding off it had torn the flesh from his face once more.

It was at that point that Kent had turned and left the room, more than thankful when no one called after him or followed him out. He made it outside, sucking in deep breaths as he leant back against the rough stone wall behind the precinct.

It was dry out, though the rain clouds hung dark and heavy above him, threatening to spill over at a moments notice. He shivered in just his shirtsleeves even as he enjoyed the feel of the cool air against his heated skin. That prickly, too-tight feeling had come over him again and he was more than happy to stand out here in the cold, gasping in deep breaths, until it faded.

His phone beeped an alert at him almost five minutes later and Kent sighed, fishing it out of his trouser pocket, thumb sweeping across the unlock bar. He almost expected it to be a text from Chandler, or Mansell. Miles didn’t text, not if he could help it.

It wasn’t from either of them.

Kent opened the notification. He’d set up an algorithm on the computer to work out an origin point based on when and where they’d found Dan’s body, adding in an approximate estimation for how long his body had been in the water along with tidal flow and allowing for all the extra rainfall they’d been having.

The notification was to tell him an estimated area had been found.

Glancing down at the map on his phone, Kent wasn’t even a little bit surprised to find one of the pedestrian bridges crossing over the Thames was in the predicted section.

There was probably CCTV in the area he could look up, he thought, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. But he didn’t particularly want to watch Dan jump off the bridge. Couldn’t watch.

But at the same time…

It wasn’t a conscious decision to start walking, but once he stepped out of the precinct and out into Whitechapel proper… well, there seemed only one direction he wanted to go. If he’d been thinking clearer he might have realised how stupid an idea this was, how bad it would look if anyone found him. But he wasn’t. Not really. His head was just too messed up with everything, with this whole case, with this whole Kray thing.

It was getting late by the time he reached the bridge. It was close enough to Dan’s home that Kent was pretty confident that he’d used it on a semi regular basis. There was nothing spectacular about it. Nothing to allude as to why Dan would have chosen this bridge. Chances are he was just walking across it that night and… stopped.

Kent stopped, two thirds across. The wind ruffling at his shirt and hair as he turned.

Chances are Dan had taken a moment to just look out over the water, to see the city lights reflected across the surface. The sight almost beautiful by night.

Kent stepped up to the edge. It was just above waist-high. He peered out over the side, staring down into the murky depths of the Thames beneath him. He could hear the rush of water, the rumbling of traffic splashing over wet tarmac. He imagined it was quieter that night. The water a softer sound, lapping at the stone supports.

What had called to Dan Street? What had made him pull himself up onto the ledge- Kent reached out, pressing his hands palm flat against the stone as he leant forward, standing up on his tip toes. What had made him stand there- sit there?- looking out over the river and think about jumping in? Had he thought about what he was doing? About what he was giving up? About who he was giving up? He’d lost so much though. Sure he still had a family that loved him, but Kent could easily imagine their relief when they told them it was suicide, that it was finally over.

Their son was dead, but… he’d died a long time ago. Months ago. He’d died when the Kray’s tore his face off so violently they’d had to put the pieces in a bucket.

That wasn’t him though. That wasn’t going to be him.

Kent’s right leg flared then and he flinched, dropping back to his feet instantly.

And not a moment too soon if the cacophony of screeching tires and thundering boots was anything to go by.

“Kent!”

“Emerson!”

“Fuck.” He breathed, turning to see Miles and Chandler running down the bridge towards him. He wanted to throw his head into his hands, he wanted to laugh, and cry, and maybe curse himself some more because he knew how this must look.

He was standing here, out on the same bridge as Dan Street, after leaving the Incident Room without a word, without so much as his jacket. Were they all thinking the same thing? Were they are wondering if he was thinking the same thing too?

He felt sick. Because he was. He’d been thinking about it, of course he had. But that didn’t mean…

Miles’ grip on his arm was almost too tight when he reached him, all red-faced and breathless. Chandler was pale, deathly so, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled but his grip wasn’t any less tight as he took hold of Kent’s other arm.

Neither of them said anything. Kent was mortified, but his throat didn’t seem inclined to work, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth, as they marched him back towards the cars. Mansell stood there, his phone clasped in one hand. His other hand was clenched white around the car door.

He let them put him into Chandler’s car before he finally dropped his head into his hands. _Oh God_. How the hell was he supposed to explain this? They were never going to believe he was just investigating the scene, not like this, not leaving like he did.

It was a few minutes before Chandler climbed into the driver’s seat. Kent looked into his wing mirror, watching as Miles ushered a reluctant Mansell towards the second car.

He could feel Chandler’s eyes on him. Guilt washed over him.

 _I know what you’re thinking_ , he wanted to say. _I wasn’t going to do it_. But he said nothing.

“Can I- can I take you home?” Chandler asked. Even if his voice hadn’t given his hesitancy away, the look on his face would have. Kent was too tired for the conversation Chandler wanted. Too sickened by his own toiling emotions to want to even try. And yet, despite just wanting to go home, to curl himself up under his duvet again and pretend for the millionth time that it was okay, that he was okay, he looked at Chandler, at how terrified he still looked, and he nodded.

Chandler’s relief was palpable. Kent looked away, rubbing at his face. He didn’t deserve that level of concern. Not after pulling a stunt like this, intentional or not. He twitched under the sudden touch of a hand to his arm but didn’t pull away.

“We don’t have to talk,” Chandler promised, squeezing just a little before pulling away. The engine purred to life a second later and Kent followed Chandler’s unspoken lead and fastened his seatbelt.

“Thank you,” Kent whispered. For not asking. For understanding. For coming to get him. For everything he’d ever done for Kent. For still being here. For everything.

If Chandler heard him, he didn’t say anything.

 - - -

It was Chandler’s home they went to, not Kent’s, but he’d been expecting it and hadn’t tried to argue otherwise when Chandler deliberately missed his turning. The pillow and blanket they’d used the night he’d stayed over sat in a neat pile upon the couch. Wordlessly, Kent walked towards it, slipping his shoes off as he had that evening, before curling himself up on the couch and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. It still smelt a little like Chandler, and he hunched into it.

He’d started shaking some time during the drive. Full body shudders that chattered his teeth together. He wasn’t entirely sure it was from the cold that had seeped into him as he’d stood on the bridge. His shirtsleeves were still rolled up to his elbows but he made no move to pull them down.

He heard Chandler shuck his coat, drop his keys to the kitchen counter, flick the kettle on for tea.

He hadn’t spoken since they’d left the bridge. Neither of them had. And Kent wondered just how long Chandler would be willing to let them get away with silence. He knew Chandler must have questions for him. Demands, even. It was written in the tense hunch of his shoulders as he went about fetching mugs and spoons and teabags from various cupboards and drawers. It was there in the pinched look to his face, the tight press of his lips, the shake of his hands as he poured the hot water.

Kent watched it all, quietly. Should he apologise? But an apology might be taken as an admission of guilt, as an implication that Kent had something else to be sorry for aside from being in a questionable location without telling any of his colleagues he was heading there in the first place.

Chandler finished making the tea and started towards him, handing Kent one of the mugs before he sat himself down beside him. He angled himself towards Kent but didn’t look at him. Kent dropped his own eyes to his mug, feeling the heat seeping through the ceramic to burn at his hands. He kept them clasped around it, enjoying the sting.

The silence grew. Again, it wasn’t an entirely expectant one, nor even an uncomfortable one. But it still felt as though Chandler was waiting for him to make the first move, to initiate the conversation he didn’t want to have.

He took a sip of tea. Should he? Speak? He felt like he owed Chandler _something_. He looked so pale, drawn and tired, and he could smell the faint aroma of Tiger Balm, as if it had been quite recently applied. Kent felt like he should be the one comforting Chandler, as Chandler had done for him. Had been doing for him.

He moved to put his mug on the table, a coaster already in place. Chandler looked up, watching as Kent turned towards him and uncurled himself enough to inch forward, to lean himself against Chandler and wrap his arms around him as tightly as he dared.

His heart was in his mouth as Chandler sat there, unmoving for one heartbeat, two, before he shifted, reaching to put his own mug down. His arms came around Kent then, tight and strong, pulling them so closely together that Kent could feel every inch of him against his chest.

He shuddered in Chandler’s arms, burying his face against his neck. Hoping he was giving Chandler as much comfort as he was taking from him in this moment. Grateful that they were even in a place where this kind of comfort was offered and accepted.

They stayed pressed together for a long time, content to just hold one another. Gradually their holds loosened, and Chandler shifted his grip to allow himself to run his hand through Kent’s hair.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Kent muttered. His voice was thick in the silence grown between them. Chandler’s arm tightened fractionally at his words.

“What were you thinking, Emerson?” Chandler asked, his voice as shaky as Kent felt.

“I wasn’t,” he admitted, swallowing heavily. “I- I can’t really explain. After Llewellyn came in I just… I needed some air and I started walking.”

“We got the alert,” Chandler said. “When we couldn’t get a hold of you, Mansell checked your computer and found your search.”

He stopped, waiting for Kent to say something but he said nothing. He didn’t remember receiving any phone calls, but then his head hadn’t been in the best of places. He could quite easily not have heard his phone going off whilst lost in his own thoughts, and his thoughts of Dan Street.

“Why were you on that bridge, Emerson?” Chandler pressed.

Kent frowned. “I thought we didn’t have to talk?” he asked. Chandler seemed to freeze up under him and Kent winced internally. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, and then Kent sighed.

“I don’t want to fight tonight.”

“We don’t need to fight at all.” Chandler said.

“You want answers and I- I don’t have them, Joe.” He looked up, meeting Chandler’s gaze. “I’m not Dan Street.”

“What?” Chandler frowned.

“I’m not Dan Street,” Kent repeated.

Chandler looked confused.

“You- all of you- you’ve been acting like… like he could have been me.” Kent said, shifting uncomfortably as Chandler momentarily averted his eyes. He remained silent in the face of Kent’s comment, and Kent took that as an affirmation. They had been thinking it. They all had.

“I’m not going to do that.” He said softly. “I _won’t_ do that.”

“Emerson…” Chandler began, cautiously. “Do you remember, after McCormack, when we were talking and I asked you-”

_“Where would you be? If it were you, where would you be now?”_

“I remember,” Kent interrupted. Knowing exactly what Chandler wanted to ask. He remembered sitting with Chandler in Buchan’s kitchen, a bottle of gin between them, as they spoke of McCormack and how he could so easily have been Kent. If Kent had been the mole.

_“I just can’t help but wish it were me, sir. That you were right and I was the mole. Then maybe McCormack would still be here.”_

Chandler had asked him then, in not so many words, if Kent would have done as McCormack did and Kent hadn’t been able to answer him.

_“I don’t know, sir.”_

Kent pushed himself up, twisting out of Chandler’s grip to look at him. “Don’t give up on me so easily.”

“I won’t,” Chandler promised, “I’m just worried you’ll give up on yourself.” His eyes raked over Kent’s face. “You take so much on yourself, never asking for help, hardly ever taking it when it’s offered.”

Kent swallowed heavily, tensing as Chandler reached out to touch at his face. “I’m just glad you’ll give me this.”

He looked away. _I’m just glad you’ll give me this too_ , he thought but didn’t say.

“I don’t mean to push everyone away,” he said instead, letting Chandler pull him back down into his arms. “I just can’t deal with everyone constantly watching me, judging me, asking me how I am all the time. If I’m coping, how I’m feeling. Every time I have to say I’m fine I just… I want to scream.”

“You don’t like that we care about you?” Chandler asked.

Kent shook his head, heart beginning to hammer against his chest. “No. I just… I don’t like having to lie to you all.” He sucked in a deep breath and Chandler let the silence grow between them, content to let Kent organise his thoughts.

“I’m not fine,” he admitted. “I know you know that. I haven’t been for months now. Maybe I’ll never be. Maybe these feelings will never go away. Maybe the nightmares will never stop. People don’t really want to hear how I am when they ask, they just want me to be okay so that they can sleep easy knowing they asked and I answered and so what if it isn’t true?”

“Do you really believe that?” Chandler asked, “That we’re only asking to relieve ourselves of any obligation?”

Kent half-shrugged. “Sometimes.” He admitted. “Most times.”

“Doesn’t it get tiring?” Chandler asked. “Doubting everyone? Lying all the time?”

“I’ve been tired for so long now. I don’t know how to feel anything but tired. It gets worse every day too, until even the thought of getting up, of doing anything, is a chore. How am I supposed to tell people that? How am I supposed to stop feeling like that, Joe? How do I fix that without wondering what it’d be like to… to just… _stop_.”

“Emerson,” the call of his name came with a hitch in Chandler’s voice, the sound silencing Kent and making him turn his face into Chandler’s neck, stifling the flow of words from his lips.

Chandler turned with him, his mouth finding Kent’s temple, his lips desperate in their press against his skin. A moment later he felt something wet hit his face and he pulled away enough to look up at Chandler.

There were tears on his face.

“Joe,” He pulled away, sitting quickly up, his hands frantic against Chandler’s cheeks as he tried to brush his tears away. “Are you okay? What did I do-,”

“I want to hear, Emerson,” Chandler said, his own hands coming up to cup at Kent’s face, holding him in place. His eyes fierce and burning as they stared into Kent’s own. “I want to hear. Every time you’re not okay I want to know. I don’t want you to pretend for me. To lie for me. If you’re not fine, tell me. I can’t help unless you tell me!”

Kent’s throat burned. His _eyes_ burned. Chandler was crying freely, his tears silently rolling down his cheeks, wetting Kent’s fingers without shame. How could he bear to be seen? To be so open and vulnerable? To be so trusting of Kent when Kent was still so hesitant to trust him with this himself?

“Sometimes,” he whispered, the lump in his throat catching. “Sometimes I don’t want help.”

“And yet that’s the time you so desperately need it.” Chandler returned.

Kent closed his eyes then, lifting his hands away to press his fingertips into his eyelids. Instead of stopping the flow of tears, the gesture served only to squeeze out the tears building there, and once they started…

He covered his face with his hands, trying to hide from Chandler’s eyes. Chandler took hold of his wrists and gently pulled his hands away.

“It’s okay to let me see,” he whispered, and Kent blinked his eyes open. Nodding once before leaning in to bury himself against Chandler’s chest once more.

Chandler didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around him and Kent let himself relax in the hold. He could feel Chandler’s eyes on him and he closed his own against the stare.

He wondered what Chandler saw when he looked at him now; the pale pallor of his skin, the deep circles of colour beneath his eyes, the stain of tears against his cheeks. The thought of Chandler seeing him so undone made him uncomfortable and he shifted, burying his face against Chandler’s shoulder; nose pressing up against his neck in a way that was readily becoming a thing that happened between them.

Almost vaguely he wondered why the contact didn’t freak Chandler out like so much other contact did. He’d seen Chandler change his shirt three, four times a day, scrub his hands raw after shaking with a witness, even on occasion rush home to shower if he was having a particularly off day and even the hint of contact could set him off.

And yet, here he was, curled around Kent, letting him press up close, his breath a damp heat against his skin, and instead of letting go, instead of pushing Kent away to wash the sensation from his skin, he turned himself into it, his cheek coming to rest against Kent’s temple. It’d only happened a handful of times now, but Kent’s heart leapt every time Chandler let them be this close, let them be this much in each other’s space without freaking out.

“I want you to see a psychiatrist again,” Chandler said a long time later. His fingers running through Kent’s hair once more.

Before Kent had the chance to work himself up at the words he continued: “I’m not suspending you. And I’m not saying you can’t do this yourself, or that I don’t want to help you, but I hate seeing you like this, Emerson. I hate not being able to help you the way you need. I hate not knowing _how_ to help you.”

Kent didn’t move, didn’t answer, didn’t know _how_ to answer that.

“Just…” Chandler continued, “will you think about it?”

Kent closed his eyes, letting himself sink a little further into Chandler’s hold.

“Okay,” he breathed.

“Okay?” Chandler asked, a note of hope tingeing the question.

“Okay.” He agreed. _I’ll think about it._

The press of Chandler’s lips to his temple came with a whispered ‘ _thank you_.’

The wash of guilt he immediately felt stayed with him for the rest of the night.

 - - -


	3. hell & consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Kent continues to insist that he’s fine, until he realises that he’s really not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **}** [37stitches @ livejournal](http://cs-whitewolf.livejournal.com/351804.html)  
>  **}** [37stitches @ tumblr](http://campaspe.tumblr.com/tagged/on-writing%3A-37stitches)

“Another late night?” The sound of Chandler’s voice startled him and Kent jerked in his seat, wincing at the shock of pain that immediately flared through his right leg. He glanced at the watch to his left, just in time to see the minute hand tick itself over onto the half past eight slot.

“Ah, yes sir,” he managed, surreptitiously slipping one of his hands under his upper thigh to squeeze his fingers into the thick line of scarring there. It did little to ease the pain.

“Any particular reason for it?” Chandler asked.

Kent shook his head, offering Chandler a tight smile. He watched as Chandler’s expression became more concerned than curious and turned his attention back to the file he’d been reading through. He heard a shift of fabric, the soft tread of his footfall, and then Chandler was beside him, leaning himself against the edge of Kent’s desk.

“Why are you still here, Emerson?” Chandler asked.

Kent looked up, mouth twisting to the side. “It’s a bit easier to concentrate after the others have left,” he said, resignation in his tone.

Chandler inclined his head. “I’m doing my best, you know, they’re just worried about you.”

“They don’t need to be.” Kent bit out, turning away. He touched at the papers he’d been reading, shuffling them uselessly together, neatening their edges.

“Emerson-,” Chandler started. He gestured helplessly, palms up in an almost-surrender. “We’re _all_ worried about you.”

Kent shook his head, looking back up. “You don’t have to be,” he sighed. “I just- I wish you wouldn’t. I’m fine-” he laughed a little, “I’m _as_ fine as I can be.”

Chandler quirked a small smile at him, reaching out to squeeze at his shoulder. Kent lifted it a little, turning to touch his face to the back of Chandler’s hand and Chandler turned it, cupping at Kent’s cheek with his palm as he reached out with the other to brush the curls back from his forehead.

“It’s not just something you can turn on and off,” Chandler said softly. “Worrying about you.”

He kept carding his fingers through Kent’s hair. “After everything that’s happened, we can’t help but want to look out for you.”

Kent sighed, turning his face against Chandler’s hand, feeling his lips brush against his palm. Chandler’s fingers twitched against his skin, but the hand moving through his hair didn’t falter.

Kent sighed again, closing his eyes as he let himself have this moment of peace.

The weeks following on from the Dan Street case hadn’t exactly been kind to him. To any of them really, if Kent was to be honest about it. He understood, of course he did, how terrified everyone had been upon finding him on the self same bridge that Dan had used.

At the time of finding him, Kent hadn’t been able to dispel that terror, hadn’t been able to protest their immediate assumptions, their inevitable reactions. Maybe if he’d been able to laugh it off, to brush their concern off in that instant…

He’d told Chandler, later, that he wasn’t Dan Street. That he wouldn’t do _that_. He might even have promised. But the truth, the horrible, all-consuming truth of it was that he had been thinking about it.

As much as he didn’t want to believe he’d have done it, not there and not like that.

But for all his protests to Chandler, his words had rung hollow against his own ears.

He hadn’t been in his right mind.

He knew that.

Everyone, it seemed, knew that.

And everyone, it seemed, was inclined to punish him for it with watchful eyes and a constant litany of questions designed to gauge just how he was feeling every minute of every day since.

He’d said he was fine so many times in the last few weeks now that Kent was beginning to worry he’d forgotten the meaning of the word. If nothing else, it worked to prevent further questioning. Though Kent wasn’t sure if that was because they were respecting him enough to trust his answer, or if they knew they wouldn’t get anything but that out of him.

Which, if the latter, begged the question why?

Why did they keep asking?

Why didn’t they keep pushing for more?

Not that Kent wanted them to keep pushing, of course. He’d gotten more than enough of that from Chandler. Though the man was subtle in his prodding at least. And he didn’t watch Kent with the same hawk-eyed gaze that Miles seemed to have employed whenever they were in a room together. Or follow him into the urinals like Mansell had tried to do on a few occasions.

It was his own fault, he knew, but even that was a bitter consolation when faced with the sudden over-protectiveness of his team.

He’d dealt with it though. Was dealing with it. Thought he could deal with it. It was only at work, after all. And a part of him felt like he owed them this.

Then the call came in.

Three weeks to the day they’d wrapped on the Dan Street case.

Miles had been in with Chandler at the time, having one of their daily discussions, and the call had transferred through to Kent’s desk.

It was from one of the departments who dealt with the tracking and tracing of suspects and they wanted to know if the trace on Emerson Kent’s mobile phone was to be renewed again for the upcoming week.

He’d stopped listening after that, his ears ringing with the shock of the words. They were tracking him? _Still_ tracking him? Chandler had told him that they’d put a trace on him the day they found him on the bridge, but Kent had assumed it had been a one-time thing, not a weeks-down-the-line thing.

He mumbled something about getting his Sergeant before putting the call on hold. His hands were shaking as he sat the receiver on his desk. Adrenaline surging through him, flushing him with anger and humiliation. Was it an overreaction to feel violated? To feel as though his trust had been abused in the worst possible way?

He looked up into Chandler’s office, saw him holding back a smile at something Miles was telling him and his heart _hurt_. He’d confided so much in Chandler and this felt like an utter betrayal of everything they’d become. Chandler just had to ask and Kent would tell him whatever he wanted to know, maybe not instantaneously, but Chandler had a way of waiting him out that made the words spill from his lips without filter.

The call hadn’t gone though to his DI though, it had come through for Miles.

His heart stuttered.

What if Chandler didn’t know about it?

He bit at the insides of his mouth.

What if he did.

He pushed himself up too quickly, wincing at the flare of nerve pain that shot down his right leg. He ignored it, rounding his desk with sudden purpose.

He didn’t knock when he reached Chandler’s office, just twisted the handle and pushed it open without preamble.

“Call for you, Serg,” he said, voice clipped.

Chandler and Miles looked up in surprise at the interruption.

Miles frowned. “You can’t take a message?”

“I think you want to take this call, Serg.” He replied, in the same clipped tone.

Miles flittered his gaze over towards Chandler who’s face was scrunched with bewilderment, his mouth parted in that way it sometimes did when he wanted to speak but didn’t quite know what to say.

Miles turned back to him, giving him a long, searching look before he pushed to his feet, moving past Kent with a muttered ‘ _this had better be important_ ’.

The second he’d left the room, Kent rounded on Chandler.

“Did you know?” If he’d been speaking to anyone but Chandler, the question would have been more of a demand than anything else. As it was, it bordered pretty spectacularly on insubordination.

“Kent what-,” Chandler was shaking his head, hands flat on his desk, looking at Kent in utter confusion.

“That I was being tracked?” Kent hissed.

“What?” Chandler shook his head again, “Yes, of course-,” Kent froze. “-we’d never have found you otherwise.”

Kent felt himself starting to shake. “No, not then. Now. Did you know I was- I _am_ being tracked _now_.”

If anything Chandler looked even more confused, his forehead creasing as he tried to understand. “No one is tracking-,”

“I just took a phonecall from our tracking department!” Kent bit out. “Asking if we’d like to keep the trace on my mobile active.”

“Emerson,” Chandler breathed, pushing to his feet. “I had no idea.”

His face was open, honest, his eyes wide with disbelief as he searched Kent’s face.

Kent felt himself sag, the adrenaline fuelling his anger seemed to come to a sudden halt, leaving him cold and shaky.

He believed him.

“Kent-,” he looked away, wrapping his arms around himself.

“I’ll do it, okay? I’ll do it. I’ll see the damn shrink again, just… make them stop. Please?”

Chandler froze a moment before straightening himself with sudden purpose.

“Close the door,” he said then.

It was Kent’s turn to look at him with surprise. Chandler raised his eyebrows, inclining his head towards the open door and Kent moved on autopilot to obey.

Miles was still standing at his desk when he reached for the handle, Mansell beside him.

The phone was on the hook.

They both looked up at him. Only Mansell had the decency to look guilty.

Kent wondered if Miles had told them to keep the trace on or not. He closed the door quickly, letting the _click_ of the catch ring in his ears a second before turning back to Chandler.

“Firstly, the trace will stop. I give you my word on that.” He looked at Kent, waiting for his nod of understanding. He was every inch the boss in this situation, and Kent was glad of it, aware that Miles was boring holes through the glass partitions separating them.

“Secondly, you know my personal feelings about you seeing a therapist again, but you must also know that I’d never make you do anything you were uncomfortable with?”

Kent clenched his fingers against the door handle until he felt as though his bones were about to creak with protest. He nodded again.

“I really think going back will help you,” he pressed on, face softening as he took in Kent’s obvious distress, “but I’m not going to put you into a position where it’s your only option. I don’t want to push you away. You have to go because you want to go, not as an ultimatum.”

“It’s… humiliating.” Kent admitted, looking down. “Knowing they were watching me so closely was bad enough. But I felt like I deserved that, even if it made me feel uncomfortable. But this… I just…” he shook his head, biting at his cheeks again.

“I know that what happened put everyone on edge,” he said, swallowing against the metallic taste in his mouth. “I get that, and I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m standing on that ledge right now and every time someone asks me how I am or follows me around the station or… or _tracks_ me, it’s like… I feel like I’m on that bridge again and I’m one step closer to…” he broke off with a bitter laugh, looking up to see the alarm on Chandler’s face.

He scrubbed a quick hand over his face. “I can’t seem to stop telling you what’s going on in my head, even when I don’t want to.”

“I want to know,” Chandler said, words a little breathless, a little desperate.

Kent tried to smile, his lips pulling more of a grimace. “I know. I just don’t understand why you’d want to.”

“I thought that was obvious, Em-,”

“-erson? Emerson?” Chandler’s voice filtered through his recollection of their last conversation.

“Sorry,” Kent said, drawing his attention back to the present. Miles had interrupted them with a lead that had just come through for one of the cases Chandler was working on. Kent had left Chandler’s office without so much as a nod of acknowledgement for his DS.

That had been almost two weeks ago and Kent still wasn’t on the best of speaking terms with him.

“ _Are_ you okay?” Chandler asked him and Kent pulled a face, lifting his head from Chandler’s palm.

“Don’t,” Chandler said, reaching out to prod pointedly at the creasing of his brow. “This is me asking you, and I haven’t asked you for a while now.”

Kent dropped his eyes. “I know,” he sighed, shoulders curling in as he hunched over himself, pushing his hands between his knees. “It’s just, it doesn’t feel like anything’s changed. They’re still asking me how I am all the time. They’re still watching me.”

Chandler frowned. “I personally made sure the trace was taken off your phone.”

“Yeah,” Kent agreed. “They’re just- really intense. Now more than ever.”

“I can’t stop them from caring about you,” Chandler said, his frown easing with understanding.

“They don’t have to stop _caring_ they just have to _stop_ ,” he made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, fingers clenching tightly together.

“I can feel them watching me you know,” he explained, “it’s like ants crawling up my skin every minute of every day. And I can’t concentrate. I can’t ignore it. It makes me… it makes me nervous.”

He felt twitchy and on edge all the time now. More so perhaps than he’d been after his attack. It was different of course. He knew he wasn’t about to be attacked and he was trying, he really was, not to be angry, or ungrateful, but it was hard knowing his every movement was being scrutinised and categorised and the whole thing left him in a state of perpetual alertness.

It felt like he couldn’t breathe. Like he was on the verge of splitting apart at the seems.

“Have you… spoken to anyone about this?” Chandler asked, cautiously.

Kent smiled half-heartedly. “You mean my therapist?”

Chandler returned the half-smile, agreeing: “I mean your therapist.”

Chandler had been informed of his renewed therapy the moment he’d signed back on. It had been one of the reasons, initially, why he hadn’t wanted to go at all. The sessions were still private and confidential, but so long as he was still actively working a report determining his state of mind would be sent to his supervising officer every month assessing his capabilities and advising his DI on any available options.

He hadn’t wanted to admit he needed the help.

He hadn’t wanted anyone to know he needed the help.

Talking with Chandler… had been like a cocoon. Something that happened between them without input from the outside world. He could almost convince himself that out with these moments together, no one knew the depths to which he’d been sinking.

It took the Dan Street case to make him realise that everyone _apart_ from he himself knew exactly what was happening with him.

And it took the knowledge that Miles was desperate enough to keep tracking him to make him realise he needed the extra help.

“She says it’s a type of hyper vigilance,” he answered, before pausing, not sure if he wanted to continue. Chandler waited him out, expression carefully curious.

Kent met his eyes briefly, shaking his head. Chandler was unnervingly good at making Kent want to keep taking, but it still wasn’t as easy as divulging his innermost fears to a complete stranger was. He knew Chandler would never judge him or hold his weaknesses against him, not _really_ , but there was always that small niggle of doubt in the back of his mind that left him holding something back.

“She says it can be a symptom of PTSD,” he shrugged, trying for blasé. “That I’m still living in fear of what the Kray’s did to me.”

“And what do you think?” Chandler asked.

“That I don’t need a therapist to tell me that.” Kent chewed nervously at the inside of his mouth a moment before huffing a humourless laugh. “I’ve been afraid since it happened.” He admitted. It was getting easier to say those words now. _I’m afraid_. _I’ve been afraid_. He clenched his hands together.

“Is she not helping?” Chandler asked, looking concerned.

Kent shrugged again, sliding his eyes to the corner of his desk. The cheap wood was chipped at the edge, discoloured from the rest of the desk. Kent wondered if Chandler saw it. Wondered if it would bother him if he did.

He looked briefly back towards Chandler to find him still watching. “Talking it out, it’s helping. I guess. The nightmares- the things I worry about- they seem… less all consuming when I say them out loud. Less realistic.”

Chandler nodded. “Are you still having nightmares?”

“I’m always having nightmares.” He said, quirking a smile.

Chandler didn’t smile back. Not exactly.

Kent clawed at his hands. “They’re getting better,” he allowed. “Fewer. Further apart. I can sleep most nights now. I’m… not _afraid_ to sleep. My flatmates are happy about that much at least.”

He gave another hollow laugh as he finished. Twisting his hands together, feeling the pinch against his skin.

“You’re smiling and laughing,” Chandler commented. Kent looked at him, swallowed. “I hope you know you don’t have to make light of this for my sake?”

Kent looked away.

“I’m still going to worry about you.” Chandler said.

Kent lifted a hand, pushing his fingers through his hair with a breathy sigh. “Yeah. I- you don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I- what have you done?” Chandler broke off, his fingers suddenly curling around Kent’s wrist and tugging his hand closer.

“Emerson, what is this?” He was frowning deeply, eyes wide as he looked from Kent’s hand to his face and back again.

Confused, Kent looked, tensing when he saw how red it was. How red both his hands were. And scratched up too, little half-moon indents from where he’d been digging his nails into the yielding flesh on the back of his hands standing stark and bloody against his pale skin.

There was blood under his nails too.

Kent jerked his hand from Chandler’s hold, burying them both between his knees. He dropped his eyes, turning his head to glare at the corner of his desk. He could hear his heart, its beat quick and thundering as he waited for Chandler to say something.

“Emerson-,” he flinched, sucking in then holding his breath.

“Emerson, look at me. Please?”

Kent steadfastly kept his head down. His cheeks flaming red.

“Is this something I _should_ be worried about?” Chandler tried.

“It’s nothing.” His hands stung, now that he’d noticed. Now that Chandler had noticed; the coarse fabric of his trousers scraping across the light scratches. “They’ll be gone by tomorrow.” He added, as if that might help. There were only light scratches, just piercing through the first layer. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to fixate on.

“Emerson, if you’re hurting yourself-,”

“I’m not.” Too quick. Too desperate. He forced himself to take a breath, to meet Chandler’s eyes. _Honest Guv_.

“It’s not like that. It’s… I don’t even realise I’m doing it. Alright?” As if that made it better.

He watched as Chandler opened and closed his mouth a few times, lips pressing thinly together before his expression settled. He looked dubious, wary.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” He said, eyes flicking down to where Kent had hidden his hands.

Kent straightened, put on edge by his words. “It doesn’t matter how you feel about it.”

Chandler flinched then. And so did Kent, he could feel his cheeks heating a little more and he automatically lifted a hand to press his fingers to his eyes in a hard squeeze, the pressure enough to send spots dancing before his vision.

“I didn’t mean-,” Chandler started.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-,” he dropped his hand again, very aware of the way Chandler’s eyes followed the movement.

They both lapsed into a silence that grew the longer they left it untamed.

“I should call it a night.” Kent mumbled a moment later.

“Okay,” Chandler agreed, pushing himself to his feet.

He stood beside Kent’s desk, hovering awkwardly as Kent stood and stuffed a few things into his bag.

“I- do you want a lift?” He offered.

“No.” To quick, again. “No thanks.”

Chandler nodded, stepped aside. Kent hesitated, waiting for Chandler to say something but instead he said nothing. He wondered if he was too afraid to push him now. If he thought Kent would break. He hadn’t been as overbearing as Miles or Mansell, but Kent almost wished he was, out of all of them.

He shook that thought immediately from his mind as he grabbed his jacket and hurried to the door.

“Emerson!” The call of his name came just as he was about to leave the room. He turned to Chandler, his heart lurching at the look of open vulnerability painted across Chandler’s face.

He swallowed heavily, waiting.

“Goodnight.” Was all Chandler said.

“Goodnight,” he returned, the word tasting like disappointment against his tongue.

\- - -

The few days following on from their conversation were… stilted to say the least. It was back to the daily grind of paperwork and cold cases and so, as much as he might wish he could, there was just no escaping Chandler and the looks of deep concern directed his way every time Kent caught his gaze.

He wasn’t avoiding Chandler, per se, so much as he was actively making a point of keeping his head down and focussing all his attention on the files in front of him.

He felt a little bad about the cold shoulder treatment but he didn’t know how to get them from the one step forward two steps back dance they seemed to perpetually perform. Not without laying every last, ugly part of himself out for Chandler to see. It was natural to want to protect himself, to try. Pushing Chandler away was never an intention, though it always seemed to be the outcome whenever things got to a point where Kent didn’t feel in control anymore.

Kent was just settling in for another day of mind-numbing paperwork when Mansell arrived, loudly, and grinning much like the cat that had gotten the cream.

“Hello, hello!” He greeted, all but bouncing into the Incident Room. “Everyone alright?”

Kent looked up with a wary frown, instantly on alert. There was not much that could get Mansell moving like this before ten o’clock, and it looked like he’d already consumed more than the two cups of coffees it usually took.

“What’s got you so bloody cheery?” Miles asked, blearily looking up from his own desk. He was still nursing his first coffee and looking for all the world as though he needed it.

Mansell’s grin didn’t even falter. “I,” he paused dramatically, “have an announcement to make!”

Kent felt his mouth twitch as he waited for Mansell to continue.

Chandler stepped into the room then and Mansell turned his grin on him, stopping Chandler in his tracks as he eyed him suspiciously.

“You’re just in time,” Miles called over, “Mansell here wants to make an announcement.”

“Oh yes?” Chandler asked, politely, one of those bemused expressions flittering across his face. His eyes slid briefly to Kent’s, and Kent found himself quirking a smile at Chandler before he dropped his gaze.

“I-,” Mansell paused again, drawing everyone’s attention back.

Miles rolled his eyes. “Enough of the theatrics, go on and spit it out before we die from the suspense!”

Mansell laughed. “Can’t a guy want a little suspense before he announces his engagement?”

There was a heartbeat of shocked silence as the words sunk themselves in.

“You what?” Miles was the first of them to ask.

Mansell laughed again, grinning from ear to ear. “I asked her last night and she said yes!”

“How the hell did you manage that?” Miles laughed back, moving forward to shake his hand and congratulate him.

Kent tried not to openly frown even as he stood to shake Mansell’s hand and offer his own congrats. As long as he’d known him, Kent had heard Mansell talking about a different woman almost every weekend. He hadn’t even realised that he was seeing someone with any degree of seriousness. How had he missed this? Had he been so wrapped up in his own problems that he’d completely ignored what was going on with the rest of the team?

He returned to his seat, feeling guilt churn at his stomach. He knew the answer to that one already. He lifted his own coffee, picking unconsciously at the sleeve as Mansell started talking about the impromptu engagement party they were planning for the following weekend.

He looked so excited and Kent found himself smiling despite himself, infected by Mansell’s happiness. He caught Chandler’s eye again as he passed by on his way into his office and saw that Chandler was smiling too.

His smile didn’t falter, and neither did Kent’s, though he did drop his chin to hide it behind his coffee cup, feeling a wave of warmth rush over him. Maybe it’d be okay. Things between them. He looked up again, feeling a slight flush on his cheeks as he found Chandler still watching him, still smiling at him.

Miles cleared his throat, and Kent twitched a little, trying not to jump as he turned his head to find Miles standing beside his desk now. Something about the way Miles was watching him made Kent’s smile waver and his blush deepen. He slid his eyes to Chandler, but he was looking at Miles now, his smile gone and the beginnings of a frown creasing his brow. Kent felt his own fleeting happiness fizzle away into nothingness.

On the other side of the room, Mansell was humming happily to himself.

“Kent, before you get settled,” Miles started, gesturing towards the door, a clear indication that he wanted a word. Chandler seemed to tense, his reaction immediately setting Kent on edge.

“Actually, I was just about to-,” he gestured with his coffee, not entirely sure where he was going with it but Miles barely acknowledged the action.

“It wasn’t a question.” Came the brusque interruption. Mansell’s head shot up at the tone, his own smile stumbling as he looked between the three of them.

Kent pressed his lips together but nodded and stood, he made a point of grabbing Mansell’s shoulder in a squeeze, offering another round of congratulations as he preceding Miles out of the Incident Room. Mansell grinned his thanks, but it was nowhere near as euphorious as it had been just moments ago.

Kent stopped in the hallway outside of the Incident Room but Miles kept walking, forcing Kent to follow him until they reached one of the interview rooms.

He felt a prickle of unease as he stepped into the room, immediately feeling cornered and defensive. If Miles wanted to apologise for the trace he’d left on him for three weeks he could have done it in the hallway, hell, he could have done it in the Incident Room itself with everyone else around.

If he wasn’t planning on apologising, Kent couldn’t imagine what else he could want to discuss that saw the need for them to use the privacy of an interview room.

He folded his arms across his chest, fingers squeezing tightly as Miles gestured to one of the chairs before closing the door behind Kent.

“I’ll stand. Sir.” He said, tacking on the honorific.

“Suit yourself,” Miles said. He didn’t sit either, even as he moved to stand behind one of the chairs, hands settling on its back in a tight grip.

“First things first, I know you’re still upset about me keeping the trace on you,” Kent inclined his head. “I’m not apologising for it.”

A fission of indignant anger sparked inside him.

Miles continued: “I know you’re not happy but I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t try something like that again. I’m not apologising for looking out for you.”

Kent opened his mouth to defend himself but Miles pressed on before he could try.

“I don’t care what Chandler tells me. He says you won’t do it, but I saw you on that bridge, Kent, and you scared the hell out of all of us. I’ve never seen you like that before and if it were up to me you’d be off work and sorting yourself out with the right kind of help instead of pushing yourself to be here.”

Kent swallowed, stomach twisting knots. “Did it ever occur to you that I need to be here?” he asked, voice soft, unsteady. “That maybe being off would be the worst thing for me?”

“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” Miles said, frankly.

Kent frowned. “What?”

“I don’t think you need to be here.” Miles answered, “I think you _want_ to be here. And not just for the job.”

“I don’t-,” He shook his head, squeezing his arms more tightly. Miles was watching him, taking in every gesture and reaction and Kent forced himself to take a breath, to relax his arms, to not look so closed off and confrontational.

His fingers clenched fists at his sides instead.

“You do.” Miles interrupted. “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

He hadn’t even said a name but Kent knew exactly who he was talking about. He flushed.

“I’ve always looked at him the same way,” he said, feeling the bite of his nails against his palms.

Miles inclined his head in agreement. “I’ve also seen the way he looks at you.”

Kent froze. It felt as though a bucket of ice water had just been poured over him, leaving him standing there, staring at Miles in wordless disbelief. He shook his head in denial.

“You might not see it, but I do. And I’m not the only one. And since _he’s_ too pig-headed to listen to me, you’re going to have to.”

Kent shook his head again. “No, I don’t,” he said, throat working over the words. Something telling him he really didn’t want to have this conversation. He reached blindly for the door, fingers clasping desperately at the handle.

“Yes, you do.” Miles said calmly but firmly and Kent came to an immediate halt. Fingers twitching. Miles was his DS, was directly in charge of him before Chandler even. Yes, he did.

He turned back slowly. Defeated.

“You need to hear this, and if I have to be the big bad for it then I can live with that. What’s going on between you and the DI, all these late nights together, all these _talks_ -,” he emphasised the last word, as if to imply something else entirely. “-do you realise how this all looks?”

“How what looks?” Kent snapped, “Someone actually giving a damn about me?”

“Yes!” Miles threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

Kent blinked at him. “I- what?”

“He’s your boss,” Miles pressed, “He’s in a position of power over you. Anything that happens between you two will either be seen as an abuse of that power or a ploy at advancement on your part. You might not see how this kind of attention could harm both your careers, but I’ve seen people persecuted for less. And I don’t want that, for either of you.”

“I- it’s not like that,” Kent said, feeling his cheeks heat further. He shook his head. “It’s nothing like that.”

It’s not as if Kent hadn’t thought about how it might appear to anyone who looked too closely, it’s just that he… hadn’t considered it an issue because there _wasn’t_ actually anything going on. They were as professional as they always were whilst at work, and although Kent had been bringing more and more of his issues into the workplace despite his best intentions, Chandler hadn’t done anything that could be seen as improper. Hell, Mansell following him into the toilets every day for the first three days after they closed the Dan Street case could be considered more improper than anything Chandler had done to him whilst on the clock.

He tried to say as much to Miles but the look of disbelief on his face only seemed to heighten. Kent felt too hot, suddenly shaky. His stomach clenching with nauseous intent.

Did he somehow know about the way they touched each other when it was just the two of them alone? Had he seen the way Kent all but curled himself into Chandler’s space whenever the promise of contact was offered? How could he have-

“You’ve been staying at his place,” Miles accused as if he couldn’t believe Kent wasn’t admitting to his allegations.

“How do you-,” Kent cut himself off. Remembering the few occasions Miles had been at the station when they were either leaving or arriving together. He’d only stayed at Chandler’s place a couple of times, though Chandler had driven him home a few times more than that over the last couple of weeks.

It certainly wasn’t a _thing_.

Even if Miles seemed to think it was.

“It’s not like that.” Kent repeated, biting at the inside of his cheek. He crossed his arms again. The last time had been… had been after they’d found him on the bridge.

Miles snorted, disbelieving. “No?” He pushed. “Then what is it like? Explain it to me.”

Kent shook his head, words stumbling over one another as he rushed to defend them both. “It’s only been a couple of times. It’s not- there’s nothing going on. The last time- that last time… you’re the one who put me in the car with him. If you were so worried about our conduct-,”

“You’d just tried to commit suicide!” Miles snapped. Kent reacted as if he’d been physically slapped. No one had used that word. No one had said it aloud even if they’d been thinking it and Kent felt as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs as he stared at Miles in wounded disbelief.

“I- I never-,” There was blood in his mouth, the taste coppery and cloying as he swallowed thickly.

“I don’t have to explain anything to you.” He said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper even as a steely determination came over him.

Miles’ frown deepened. He wasn’t a man used to giving orders and not having them obeyed. Kent swallowed again, feeling as though he was about to choke on his own tongue.

If it were any other situation, any other conversation, Kent wouldn’t have hesitated in obeying Miles. The man had been his Sergeant for too many years now and despite the past few weeks Kent still trusted and respected him. Just… just not with this, not with any of it, but especially not with the non-relationship he had with Chandler that from apparent appearances looked exactly like something it wasn’t.

“If I were to file a report about this with senior management…” Miles drifted off but the implications were clear.

Any colour Kent had been sporting suddenly drained from his face at those words. He wasn’t sure if Miles was referring to what had happened on the bridge or his _relationship_ with Chandler, but he did know what a complaint of either nature could do to a persons career. Whether anything came of it or not.

“You would do that?” Kent breathed barely above a whisper.

Miles seemed to deflate then, shoulders coming forward, hands relaxing their vice-like grip on the chair back.

“No. No I wouldn’t.” He admitted at last.

Kent nodded once, sharply. He wanted to explain then. Wanted to tell Miles how Chandler had been helping him, how he’d gotten him to seek the proper sort of help Miles had mentioned earlier, but the words stuck in his throat once again.

He felt sick. Shivery. Fevered even. His heart pounding itself violently against his ribcage.

“If you say there’s nothing going on, I’ll take your word for it,” Miles finally said and Kent could have collapsed in relief right then.

“That said I know how you feel about him, how you’ve felt about him from the start, and I want you to think very carefully about what I’ve told you.”

Kent nodded. His ears were ringing now, and he felt an odd mixture of flush and faint. He knew his feelings for Chandler weren’t the same as Chandler’s feelings for him, but there was always a part of him that liked to think differently. When Chandler had his arms around him, his lips pressing against his temple. When Chandler comforted him after a nightmare, holding him close and protected. When Chandler just sat with him and let him talk, or not, and promised Kent he wouldn’t judge him or use it against him.

“Are we done?” He asked, surprised to find his voice even a little bit steady.

Miles nodded. “Kent, I’m sorry-,”

He didn’t know exactly which part he was apologising for, or if it was meant as a blanket apology for the whole sorry conversation, but Kent didn’t hang around to clarify. He just had to get out of there. Just had to… had to take a moment to calm himself, to wrangle his toiling emotions back into some semblance of normalcy.

His hand shook on the door handle, fingers stiff and grasping as he yanked the door open and pushed his way out of the room. Miles didn’t immediately follow and Kent thanked his luck as he all but slammed his way into the first bathroom he found, glad that no one was in it to watch the way he fumbled into one of the stalls and fell to his knees, suddenly gasping for the air he couldn’t seem to get enough of.

He couldn’t tell if he wanted to throw up or pass out as he dropped his head into his hands and tried to calm himself. Breathe in. And out. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Over and over again. He raked his fingers through his hair, digging his nails into his scalp, trying to ground himself.

He couldn’t-

He didn’t-

He shook his head, nails digging deeper.

What was wrong with him? All he could think about was Miles’ words to him. The accusations. The implied threat to them. But they didn’t make any sense. He felt as though he were in the throws of a panic attack, the likes of which he’d only ever had when triggered by some Kray related flashback or nightmare.

He sucked in a deep breath, another, eyes clenched tightly closed. He tried to ground himself and thought then of Chandler. But thoughts of Chandler led to thoughts of Miles and the insinuations he’d made.

Was his relationship with Chandler, such as it was, really something that could be taken so out of context? That could be used against them? The thought of being responsible for either of them losing their jobs or being reassigned or even just having a black mark against their name from here on out made him tremble. He couldn’t do that to Chandler. He didn’t want to be the one to ruin everything for him just because he was too messed up to look after himself.

But he didn’t want to do this alone either.

His eyes began to prickle and he pressed his fingers angrily against his eyelids until the darkness behind them burst with colour. He didn’t know how much time passed between him leaving Miles and holing up in the bathroom, but by the time the door opened his breathing was almost under control and he’d rubbed his eyes so raw he may as well have been crying.

“Kent?” Called a voice. Chandler’s voice. “Kent are you in here?”

“I’m here,” he answered, though it was obvious Chandler already knew. He’d come to a stop just outside his stall.

He stood- legs shaky, head pounding- and pulled the stall door open, brushing past Chandler without looking at him as he hurried over towards the sink. He didn’t dare look up into the mirror, as he twisted the cold tap and plunged his hands under the icy spray up to his wrists, before splashing the water over his face.

He’d only just grabbed a few paper towels, patting his face dry, when Chandler stepped up behind him, an arms-width away as he touched cautiously at Kent’s shoulder.

Kent looked up then, meeting Chandler’s eyes in the mirror. He looked overcome, anxious and upset, his eyes raking Kent’s face almost frenziedly.

Despite the conversation still ringing in his ears, Kent ignored everything Miles had just brought up as he turned, pushing himself almost forcefully into Chandler’s arms, clinging to him with the sort of desperation he’d probably feel embarrassed about later.

Chandler didn’t hesitate to pull him closer and wrap his arms around him, mouth falling to his temple.

“You’re shivering,” he breathed, rubbing a hand along the length of Kent’s back. 

“‘M sorry,” he breathed into Chandler’s neck.

Chandler ignored the apology. “Are you alright?”

“I- I don’t know,” He squeezed his eyes closed, the words slipping from his mouth without thought. “I just… I want to go home.”

He pulled back, unable to miss the undisguised surprise on Chandler’s face. His heart was still beating erratically, almost painfully. He looked away, not quite able to meet Chandler’s eyes. He’d never admitted that before. He’d never let himself take time off, not since… he sucked in a breath, straightening himself, aiming for confidence but settling for something meeker as he spoke.

“I can’t be here today, Joe,” he said, the words sounding feeble to his own ears.

“Okay,” Chandler agreed without hesitation. “Whatever you need.”

Kent closed his eyes, almost slumping in relief. He nodded his thanks, swallowing against the cloying taste of panic still sitting at the back of his throat.

“Emerson, did Miles-,” Kent looked at him, taking in the pinched look of concern twisting Chandler’s face as he tried to find the right words.

“Did something happen?” he asked finally and Kent shrugged.

“I- panicked. I think. It’s- this has never happened…” he shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “It didn’t have anything to do with… I wasn’t even thinking about… I don’t…” he choked on the words, digging his nails in deeper.

Chandler reached for him then, taking his wrists in a gentle hold and pulling him against his chest where Kent proceeded to grasp at Chandler’s shirt, needing something to hold onto in his distress.

“You’re going to be okay, Emerson,” he promised, “we’ll get through this.”

Kent could have cried then, letting Chandler’s words wash over him. The ‘ _we_ ’ particularly tugging almost desperately at his heart. He tried not to think about Miles and what he’d said. Whatever anyone thought they knew meant nothing. What mattered was this- that Kent had this.

Chandler touched his face to Kent’s, his mouth pressing tenderly against his temple in a kiss. Kent’s fingers tightened their hold.

Without Chandler, without his support, his want to help and comfort, Kent couldn’t honestly say he’d have made it this far. And maybe it was selfish of him, to want to keep Chandler, to need Chandler, when one wrong word to the wrong person could turn their entire world upside down. But Miles had said- he’d said he’d tried talking to Chandler already and that Chandler hadn’t been willing to listen and that meant, surely that meant, that Chandler cared more about helping Kent than he did about his own position on the force.

Didn’t it?

“Come on,” Chandler said, pulling back a little. “I’ll give you a lift.”

It probably said something about his state of mind that it didn’t even occur to him to protest, token or otherwise.

“Thanks,” he breathed, curling his hands together. Chandler caught at them and Kent winced, turning away. He wasn’t sure when it had started, didn’t really care, but Chandler did.

He didn’t say anything though as he looked at Kent’s hands for a moment before squeezing them tightly with his own.

“Do you need to get anything from your desk?” He asked, surprising Kent.

Chandler was watching him, unjudging, and Kent wondered just how bad he must look for Chandler not to say anything.

Chandler squeezed at his hands again and Kent tried to think. He started to nod his head, thinking of his bag, his coat, the medication he desperately needed to take, and then remembering that Miles would be there. And Mansell too. It was on the tip of his tongue to say ‘ _no, nothing_ ’ when Chandler reached a hand into his jacket pocket and drew out his car keys.

He slipped them into Kent’s hands.

“Go wait in the car, I’ll bring your things.”

Kent tried to smile his thanks, biting at his tongue to stop the sudden rush of emotion from overcoming him as he nodded his head and followed Chandler out of the bathroom. 

\- - -

Things were a little tense when Kent slipped into work at just gone eight the following morning, the atmosphere a right side chillier between the entire department than it had been the day before and Kent thought longingly of the excitement Mansell had brought to the room with the news of his engagement.

Miles and Chandler were already in with Mansell rushing in not long after Kent himself, and though Kent took great pains to make as though everything was alright, to pretend that he hadn’t completely freaked out and spent the entirety of the previous day curled up beneath his duvet blocking the rest of the world out, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of being watched.

Again.

He wished he could just shrug the feeling off, to just roll his shoulders and have the too-tight sensation slide from his skin. As it was, he could feel himself getting anxious, more edgy, _twitchier_ , as the hours dragged on. His hands shaking against the papers he was trying to read through.

It didn’t help that the only sleep he’d managed yesterday was of the half-drugged and nightmarishly feverish sort. The kind that you couldn’t quite claw your way out of. He’d taken one of the when required Diazepam tablets he’d been prescribed not long after his initial attack, hating himself for needing to but knowing that without the small white pill he’d never calm himself down enough to function.

Chandler had still been with him then. Standing in the kitchen Kent shared with four other people and watching as he’d scrabbled almost desperately through his bag for the meds. He’d tried to assure Chandler that he’d be okay getting inside under his own prowess, but after the third attempt at trying and failing to undo his seatbelt resulting in Chandler having to lean over and unclip it for him, Kent had let himself be helped out the car and up into his flat without further protest.

It was a strange feeling, having Chandler in his home. A part of him worried that it wasn’t clean enough, wasn’t tidy enough, wasn’t _nice_ enough. But a larger part of him didn’t have the energy to do more than murmur an apology for whatever mess they were about to enter into and to reassure Chandler that he didn’t have to remove his shoes at the door.

He’d led them straight into the kitchen, pleased to see that someone had actually bothered to do the dishes, even if they’d left them piled up to dry at the side of the sink. He’d been silently thankful for the glass of water Chandler had taken it upon himself to pour him too. Letting the cool liquid wash away the bitter aftertaste coating his tongue.

“Will you be okay?” Chandler had asked him, fiddling with his car keys.

Kent nodded his reply, rubbing at his eyes. “I’ll probably just go lay down. I- these tablets, they always make me feel a bit tired.”

“Is there anyone home to look out for you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he’d said en lieu of an answer.

“I- could stay?” Chandler offered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“I- thank you,” he’d said, blinking in surprise even as he found himself smiling almost genuinely at the knowledge that Chandler would do that, for him, to look out for him. “I’ll be okay though. You should get back to work.”

Chandler eyed him for another minute before nodding, offering Kent a sympathetic smile. “Just, will you call me? If you need anything?”

“Yeah,” he’d promised, averting his eyes. “I will.”

It didn’t take him long after Chandler left to remember why he never took the Diazepam if he could help it. Yes, they calmed him. Put him into a mellow sort of state that made everything seem a little less overwhelming and _immediate_. Made him push all thoughts from his mind. He’d gone straight to bed, fuzzy around the edges, praying he could just sleep the whole thing off, pretend as though he’d never even gone to work that morning and that his whole sorry conversation with Miles and his subsequent freak-out had never happened.

But he wasn’t that lucky.

He never was.

And the nightmares he’d been unable to surface from kept every memory and every fear replaying through his mind like some sadistic film reel.

It was a miracle he’d even managed to drag himself into work today. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep, and yet it was all he could think about doing.

He scrubbed at his eyes, trying not to dig his fingers too forcefully into the already tender flesh.

“Kent, can you look over this report?” The sound of Chandler’s voice startled him into looking up and meeting his eyes for a split second before he remembered himself and dropped his gaze.

He could all but feel the frown Chandler directed towards him.

Worse than that, perhaps, was that he could feel Miles’ eyes on the pair of them. Every time Chandler had tried to speak to him today, all of it legitimately work related, all Kent had been able to focus on was the skin-crawling sensation of being watched and he couldn’t help but feel more than a little cowed under the scrutiny.

“There seems to be some information missing from the witness statements,” Chandler held out the file. “I’ve notarized sections c through e.”

He nodded absently at Chandler, eyes sliding up and away as he reached out and took the file off of him with timid hands, careful not to let their fingers brush. Careful not to do or show anything that could be used against them.

“I’ll sort it now, sir,” he said, offering Chandler a tight-lipped smile.

Chandler didn’t answer, and he didn’t move away. Kent looked up wondering if there was something else or if Chandler was just watching him with that concerned disappointment that had been his default expression every time Kent avoided looking directly at him today. But Chandler wasn’t looking at him anymore, he was… he was staring rather intently at Miles who was staring just as purposefully back.

“A word, Miles.” Chandler said then, voice clipped as he turned on his heel.

Kent pushed swiftly to his feet at Chandler’s tone. The sound of his chair scraping against the floor loud in the sudden silence echoing around the room. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the words wouldn’t come and he watched in trepidation as Miles marched his way into Chandler’s office and closed the door with more forcefulness than was strictly necessary.

He watched with stomach curling dread as the two men turned on each other a moment later, their voices an angry crescendo though Kent couldn’t make out the words.

He didn’t need to hear them to know what they were shouting about. Or whom.

“I dunno what’s going on,” Mansell said, startling Kent as he sidled up beside him, his shoulder nudging against Kent’s, “but they’ve been at each others throats since yesterday. And I’m not daft enough to think it doesn’t have something to do with you.”

Kent shifted, awkward, nervous. He bit at the inside of his mouth. Trying to stop the flush from tinting at his cheeks. He knew it was because of him and he flinched inwardly at the knowledge that he was the cause of this argument between his Sergeant and his DI.

Mansell snorted quietly, eying his blush. “You finally do something about that crush of yours?”

Kent’s head whipped round so fast he heard his neck crick. They both winced. “What-?” he shook his head, almost speechless. “No! Why would you think-?”

Mansell frowned, bemused, eyes flickering over his face. “Is that what this is about?”

Kent shook his head again, vehemently. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Okay,” Mansell agreed, hands up. “But if there _was_ something going on-,” he waggled his eyebrows for emphasis and Kent felt his blush deepen “-what’s the problem? You guys have been circling each other for months, frankly it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Kent was pretty sure he was gaping at Mansell, his words almost drowned out by the rushing of blood to his head.

“Seriously, mate,” he said, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “It’s okay. You go well together.”

Kent closed his mouth with a snap. _That_ certainly put things into a different sort of perspective. He slanted his gaze back towards Chandler’s office, trying to ignore the burn in his cheeks.

It looked as though things had calmed down enough that they weren’t trying to shout over one another, but Kent could see from their flushed faces and angry gestures that whatever specifics they were discussing were far from over.

He frowned, biting at his bottom lip. He’d never seen Chandler like this before. So wound up. So incensed. So willing to stand against his own DS when it came to Kent. He bit his lip a little harder, wondering if he should go in and try to- to what? Diffuse the situation? If anything adding him to the mix was sure to make things worse. And if Kent was truthful, he’d rather not get between them. Not now. Not like this.

He wrapped his arms around his waist, hugging himself as they watched Chandler and Miles through the glass.

“You-,” Kent swallowed heavily, mouth dry. “You wouldn’t be worried about… about favouritism?”

Mansell outright laughed. “Between the pair of you, you’re too bloody noble to use it to your advantage.”

“Besides,” he added, slinging his arm around his shoulders. Kent tensed but didn’t immediately shrug him off. “So long as you keep your doe eyes to yourselves, I don’t see a problem with it. I’ve got my own girl for that.”

That startled a laugh out of Kent and Mansell grinned widely at him, ruffling almost affectionately at his hair.

“Oh god,” he breathed, covering his face. He didn’t know which misconception to address first: the fact that Mansell already seemed to think they were together, or that they were making ‘doe’ eyes at one another from across the room.

Before he could come to a decision however, the door to Chandler’s office clanged open and Kent looked up from his hands in surprise to find both men peering worriedly at him from the doorway.

Chandler looked desperately like he wanted to ask if Kent was okay but at the same time didn’t want to put him in that position in front of the others. Kent felt his heart stutter and couldn’t help another startled laugh when Mansell leaned in a little to whisper _‘doe eyes!_ ’ against the shell of his ear.

“Alright, guv? Sir?” Mansell asked, arm still slung casually over his shoulders. He was grinning widely, probably at the fact he’d make Kent laugh, twice, and Kent felt his own face stretching to match. Unable to help himself.

He looked back towards Chandler and Miles, his smile unfaltering even as he found Chandler staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read, one of those open-mouthed almost-smiles on his face. Kent felt his heart pick up its pace, the heat in his face unrelenting as he ducked his head before he could get caught staring.

He didn’t miss the exasperated look on Miles’ face though as he stepped out of Chandler’s office.

“Alright you two, enough shenanigans. Back to work!” He commanded, gruffly and Mansell slipped his arm from Kent’s shoulders, sauntering his way back to his desk with his grin intact.

Kent carefully sat himself down, watching as Miles turned to shoot Chandler a look. Chandler shrugged in reply, mouth quirking and Miles shook his head, turning to follow Chandler back into his office- but not before Kent caught the twitch of a smile on Miles’ own mouth.

Kent felt his breath catch. Wondering if maybe- just maybe- things would be okay. Between all of them. He looked over at Mansell, biting back another smile as the other man gave him two thumbs up and an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows.

Maybe.

Just. Maybe.

\- - -

The pub Mansell was holding his engagement party in was packed full by the time Kent and Chandler arrived. It was a Friday evening almost a fortnight after Mansell had made his announcement and Kent wondered if the engagement had been a long time coming for them to have planned the party so soon after the proposal, or whether it were some kind of shotgun wedding.

Not that he was one to judge. Especially not in the face of Mansell’s obvious happiness. He wished he knew more about Mansell to actually ask, he’d been so wrapped up in his own head for months now he’d barely noticed how much he’d been missing.

Mansell had taken the day off and Chandler had sent Miles home early to get ready with Judy. He’d offered for Kent to do the same, but he’d declined. He wasn’t planning on staying for more than one drink himself and if Chandler was willing to go straight from work then Kent had no qualms about doing the same himself.

It did feel a little strange going to a party of this sort in a suit and tie getup, but despite the pair of them looking out of place in a room filled with denim jeans and button down shirts, Kent didn’t move to so much as loosen his tie as they pushed their way through the throngs of people, searching for a familiar face or two.

It was Mansell himself who found them, catching the pair of them unawares as he came up from behind, throwing his arms around both their shoulders as he squeezed between them.

“Kent! Sir! Good of you to come!” he half-shouted. He was holding a bottle of beer in one hand, the contents mostly gone and Kent absently wondered just how many of them he’d already consumed. His hair was dishevelled and his cheeks were flush.

He began to steer them around the room, leading them to a table where Miles and his wife were already seated along with a few other faces he didn’t immediately recognise.

“Found them, Serg!” Mansell called out, happily and Miles looked up with a wave.

“Grab some seats, some drinks, I’ll bring Eva over for introductions in a bit, she’s tied up at the moment with the girls- I think there’s about to be a fight over who gets to be the Maid of Honour!”

He laughed and before either of them could say anything, he’d disappeared back into the throng of bodies.

Kent shot Chandler a bemused look, and he pulled a face, leaning in to admit: “I didn’t even know he was seeing anyone before he told us about the engagement.”

“Oh thank god,” Kent blurted, leaning in perhaps a little more than he should have to speak over the noise around them. “I thought it was just me!”

He felt Chandler’s laugh more than he heard it, ghosting across his ear. He bit at his lip, trying to contain his smile when Chandler moved away again.

He caught Miles watching them but was saved from having to react when a blond woman arrived at the table with two pint glasses and a white wine, successfully diverting his attention.

“Oi!” Miles called out as one of the pints was slipped in front of him.

The woman laughed, handing the wine over to Miles’ wife Judy and keeping the second pint to herself.

“I thought I told you not to get me anything?” Miles said with a put-upon scowl. The woman just laughed, waving him away.

Chandler turned back to him. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, leaning in again.

“Yeah go on,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. “Whatever’s on tap is fine.”

Kent sat himself at the table, watching as Chandler pushed his way through the crowd towards the bar. When he turned his attention back to the table it was to find the woman watching him with a grin.

“Um, hello,” he said, smiling a little shyly and she laughed.

“Ray you didn’t tell me he was this adorable!” The woman said, smacking lightly at Miles’ arm.

Miles rolled his eyes. “Kent, this is DC Megan Riley, Riley, DC Emerson Kent. And he’s not adorable.”

Kent flushed scarlet, staring at Miles with something akin to horror and the woman- Riley- laughed harder.

“No, no he’s definitely adorable!” She reached across the table to shake his hand, her grin lessening a fraction. “Call me Meg. It’s good to meet you, Emerson,” she said honestly and Kent smiled a little.

“You too,” he replied politely, cheeks still hot.

Chandler appeared beside him with a pint for Kent and a glass of what looked to be orange juice for himself.

“You okay?” He asked as he sat, eyes raking over Kent’s reddened face and Kent nodded, still smiling a little bemusedly.

“He’s fine,” Miles answered for him. “He’s just met Riley,” he said as if it explained everything. Chandler’s mouth twitched and Kent supposed that it did.

“Is that all you’re having?” Miles said then, eyeing Chandler’s drink.

“What?” Chandler asked.

“This is a party,” Miles said, eyes narrowing.

Chandler looked confused. “And?”

“There’d better at least be a fifth of vodka in that.” Judy elbowed Miles and Kent hid his laugh in his pint glass.

Chandler straightened. “I’m driving.”

“Of course you are.” He said, but he was smiling, rubbing at his side.

Chandler relaxed, saluting Miles with his juice before taking a sip.

Kent laughed aloud then and thought that perhaps the night would be an alright one after all.

Though nothing else had been said to him in the weeks preceding tonight, and Chandler and Miles had seemed to come to some kind of agreement at least in so far as their behaviour at work was concerned, Kent could admit that he’d been more than a little nervous about how this night could have gone.

In truth he’d imagined Chandler, Miles and himself sitting awkwardly at a table in the corner of the room with Chandler and Miles trading glares across the table. It was a relief to be wrong. Chandler and Miles were interacting as they always did and even though he was only drinking orange juice, a few hours into the night saw Chandler flushed and smiling, his suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair as he laughed easily at something Judy was saying.

As for Kent, he was feeling rather pleasantly buzzed. He’d finished his first pint rather quickly, but before he’d had the chance to put the empty glass back on the table another one was already replacing it.

Riley winked at him and he grinned his thanks.

After that the pints just kept on appearing and before too long he was feeling flushed and happy in that way that only alcohol can make you feel.

It had been a while since he’d last drunk this much. He’d avoided going out completely since his attack, and seeing as he wasn’t much of an in-the-house drinker, he’d willingly abstained in pursuit of hermiting himself away from the rest of the world.

It was… nice. The conversation was good, the company even better than expected. And it came almost as a surprise to Kent to find that he was actually having a good time.

He grinned a little into his beer, watching as Riley and Judy ganged up on Miles about something he hadn’t quite caught the beginning of, and enjoying the warm press of Chandler against his side as he did so.

“You’ll be lucky!” Miles exclaimed, laughing and pushing to his feet. “And before you say anything else, I think we’re going to need a refill all around.”

“I’ll grab this round, Serg,” Kent said, pushing to his feet. He hadn’t paid for a drink all night and figured it was about his turn now.

Miles tried to wave him off but Kent slipped past Chandler and with a grin to Miles made his way towards the bar.

Miles appeared at his elbow a minute later.

“You look like you’re having fun.” He said, flagging the barman for him.

“Yeah, I guess.” He said, turning to recite their list of drinks to the barman who looked unimpressively bored.

“I can’t remember the last time you looked this happy.” Miles said a moment later. Kent swallowed, shrugged.

“Haven’t had much to be happy about,” he admitted then bit at his tongue. He wasn’t usually a maudlin drunk. Nor an honest one. He tried to smile.

Miles clapped at his shoulder. “I know I haven’t made things easy for you recently,” he said and Kent felt himself tensing. Miles must have felt it too because he squeezed almost gently at his shoulder.

“I’m just trying to look out for you. I don’t want to see you hurt. Either of you.” He said pointedly. “But the pair of you are just too pig-headed to see what everyone else will.”

“There’s nothing going on, Serg.” Kent tried but Miles simply shook his head with a sigh, squeezing one last time at his shoulder. Kent got the distinct impression that he didn’t believe him at all.

He wondered if he should say something else. Something more. When Riley pushed her way between them with a bright grin, interrupting.

“You owe me a dance,” she said loudly, taking hold of Kent’s arm.

“I- what?” He gulped, eyes flickering over her shoulder to the heavy press of bodies gyrating to something that was all thumping beat and auto-tuning.

“Uh, no I don’t.” He shook his head, trying to lift his arms in an attempt to ward her off but Riley just grinned a little more, fingers tightening their grip.

“You can’t deny the lady who’s been buying your drinks for most of the night,” Miles chimed in and Kent gaped at him.

“These, uh, drinks, I was gonna-,” but Miles shook his head, slipping his wallet out of his pocket.

“Got you covered. Go dance.”

“But-,” he didn’t get to finish as Riley tugged on his arm, pulling him away from the bar with worrying ease. He looked over towards their table, throwing Chandler a desperate look when he saw him watching, but Chandler just smiled at him, all wide mouthed and creased at the eye. He looked like he was laughing, but Kent couldn’t hear it over the sound of the music. He found himself staring, a dazed sort of smile spreading across his own face and he forgot for a moment to resist the tug of Riley’s hand.

It wasn’t until he was on the dance floor, Chandler blocked by the sudden crush of bodies that Kent even realised he’d let himself go without a fight. He turned an exaggerated glare on Riley but she just laughed at him, leaning in to pat at his cheek and shout something that sounded disturbingly like ‘ _bambi_ ’ but he couldn’t be sure.

He let Riley manhandle him, grab his arms and puppeteer him into some pretty awkward dance moves, but Kent found he couldn’t complain as nearly everything he did sent her into giggles and left him smiling, fudging the moves she was showing him just to keep her laughing.

It occurred to him, almost as an afterthought that he _was_ actually enjoying himself. It had been so long since he let loose like this that the feeling was almost entirely foreign to him.

He looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of their table through the throng of bodies and felt a tingle of warmth run through him as he found Chandler looking their way.

“You should ask him to dance!” Riley shouted, leaning into his space. Kent didn’t catch everything the first time, but by the third repetition he was backing away, hands up and laughing with embarrassment.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, grinning even as he shook his head in answer.

Riley grinned at him, winking. “I could ask him to dance for you!” she offered.

Kent nearly choked on his tongue, feeling suddenly hot and awkward. “No!” he shouted back, praying she couldn’t make out just how high-pitched his voice had gone.

He flicked a nervous look back at Chandler, smiling when Chandler grinned back at him. He turned back to Riley but she wasn’t dancing with him anymore. Some guy had slipped into the space beside her and was leaning in to talk into her ear. She was laughing, leaning in to do the same and Kent figured now was as good a time as any to get off the dance floor.

Just as he was pushing his way through however the music changed and there was a sudden surge of bodies all screaming and jumping, it was hot and sweaty and Kent felt the press all around him. It was constricting, overwhelming. He tried to fight his way out, breath coming in short, sharp gasps as hands reached out as if to pull him back in.

He tried to find Riley but he’d lost her somewhere between trying to leave and becoming sandwiched between too many bodies. He could feel himself starting to panic and tried to quash the sensation. It was just a dance floor. Nothing too sinister. Just a bunch of people trying to have a good time. The hands touching at his arms and ruffling at his hair and stroking his back- they didn’t _mean_ anything. They weren’t _doing_ anything. It was okay. He was okay. He just had to get out.

He just had to-

Someone reached out and grabbed his arse. The fingers squeezing almost possessively.

And Kent freaked out.

Sound became a loud ringing against his ears, his mind a fog of panic and flight as he finally managed to shove his way out, ignoring the offended calls that followed him out.

Someone grabbed his shoulder then and he twisted with a yell, hands up and ready to shove.

It was Chandler.

He was trying to say something but Kent couldn’t hear him. Someone got to close and he flinched bodily as they bumped their way into Chandler, drink spilling in the space between them.

Chandler ignored it, taking Kent by the arm and leading him from the pub. His legs were leaden but he followed, because even in his distress he recognised Chandler as someone he could trust, as someone who was _safe_.

He stumbled his way out the pub, pulling away from Chandler as he pushed his back up against the wall outside. The ringing in his ears slowly gave way to a loud rasping sound and it took Kent too long to realise the sound was coming from him as he tried to suck in deep lungfulls of air.

_Oh god. Oh god._

“Breathe, Emerson!” Chandler was right in front of him, hands hovering but not touching, his mouth moving but the words came at him distorted and hard to make out.

He couldn’t breathe.

His chest hurt. His heart a panicked pounding. His head began to swim and suddenly the hands were back. He tried to struggle and a shock of adrenaline rushed through him.

“Emerson!” The shout was loud. Suddenly all he could hear. “Emerson, calm down!”

He froze, breathing too quick as he saw it was Chandler in front of him.

He slumped then, back still against the wall and Chandler’s hands fell away from him. He dropped his head into his hands, ignoring for the moment his very public and very humiliating panic attack as he tried to calm himself down.

It took too long.

By the time he could bear to look up again, it had turned fully dark. The storm clouds hanging over London bringing an early night with them. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, his scalp tender and sore and he wondered how long he’d already been doing that for.

He didn’t have the energy to summon up more than a cursory embarrassment however when he finally dared to look at Chandler. He looked away just as quickly, seeing the worried pallor of his skin, a waxy grey made worse under the orange glow of the streetlight.

A few smokers avoided his eyes as they huddled on the other side of the pub, their previously raucous laughter replaced with hushed whispers.

Kent looked back to Chandler.

“I’m fine,” he breathed before Chandler could ask.

“You’re far from fine,” Chandler returned and Kent flinched. Too true.

The silence stretched. His skin prickling as they just stood there, half-watching one another.

“Emerson-,” Chandler sighed and Kent let out a shaky laugh.

“Can’t even function at a fucken party,” he said derisively, pushing his fingers to his eyes.

“Emerson,” Chandler called his name again, closer now. And Kent looked up to find him standing directly in front of him. He waited until Kent was looking before he reached out, slipping his hand around the back of Kent’s neck and exerting enough pressure for Kent to realise his intentions.

He let himself be reeled into Chandler’s arms without protest. Shame and humiliation finally washing over him as he buried himself in Chandler’s scent.

The hug didn’t last long though, with Kent pulling away after only a few minutes to stand awkwardly hunched in on himself under Chandler’s scrutiny.

“What happened?” Chandler asked.

“Nothing,” came his instinctive reply before he shook his head. “Just. Too many people-,” _touching, groping_ “-I… I just couldn’t-,” _let them touch me. Not there. Oh god. Never there_.

He felt the panic bubbling just below the surface of his skin and tried to bite it back down, blood welling in his mouth.

“I’ll take you home,” Chandler said a second later.

Kent shook his head. “I’ll get a taxi. You should go back. Enjoy the rest of it.”

“I’ll drive you,” Chandler said and Kent looked at him, at the worried determination painted across his face. 

“I’m done anyway,” Chandler added.

And Kent nodded, giving in. Always. “Yeah alright. Thanks.”

Chandler hesitated only a moment longer before leaving to grab their jackets and say the goodbyes for the pair of them, leaving Kent to lean back up against the wall, head tilted back to stare unseeingly up at the sky. He’d been having a pretty good time this evening as well. He just wished he wasn’t so messed up in the head that he’d managed to ruin it not just for himself but for Chandler too.

He wanted to trust that Chandler really was ready to leave, but Kent hadn’t seen him this open and happy in a long time. Probably the last time-

He shuddered, skin crawling. The last time had been during the Kray investigation when the only way Chandler had been able to stay in control was by drinking until the screams of his demons became nothing more than buzzing whispers easily ignored.

Kent wished his demons could so easily be muted. He could almost feel that hand again, grabbing at him as if they had a right, a claim. _Touching_ him, his _scars_. 

He shuddered. Cold. Sick. Was he to be forever haunted by the Kray’s? Would he never get away from the memory of what they did to him?

\- - -

It wasn’t a surprise to find himself stepping into Chandler’s flat rather than his own. If anything it came as more of a relief than anything else, for though he didn’t want to talk, he desperately didn’t want to be alone either.

He’d headed straight for what had almost become his side of the couch. Shoes off, bag at his feet. Relaxing into the cushions as Chandler put the kettle on.

He was eying his box of Diazepam when Chandler brought the tea over a few minutes later. He felt a little awkward, having Chandler see him like this, but he tried to tell himself that Chandler had seem him like this before, had seen him worse than this.

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the proffered mug from Chandler.

“Are you going to take them?” Chandler asked, indicating the box and Kent looked down, fingers tightening their grip.

He shook his head, leaning forward to place his tea beside Chandler’s on the table before shoving the box back into his bag. Before he sat back he found himself reaching for his mug again, twisting it just a little to mirror the angle of Chandler’s own, correcting it before Chandler could fully acknowledge the need to adjust it himself.

“I don’t like the way they make me feel,” Kent said a moment later.

“But if you need them-,” his eyes slid from their mugs to meet Kent’s.

Kent ducked his head. “I’m okay now. Just- things just got a little overwhelming for a minute.”

“What has your therapist said about it?” Chandler asked, reach for his tea then.

“About what?” Kent asked, twisting his fingers together.

He didn’t have to look at Chandler to see the frown beginning to crease at his brow.

“About your being _overwhelmed_?” Chandler said, too carefully.

Kent winced, shrugged.

“I couldn’t make my last appointment,” he kept his eyes down. It wasn’t entirely true. More like he _didn’t_ keep his last appointment. But it had been scheduled on the same day he’d had the panic attack at work and by the time his appointment rolled around, Kent had just pulled his duvet up over his head and blocked the rest of the world out. The Diazepam had helped with that much at least.

“Don’t,” Kent said as the silence built between them.

“I didn’t say anything,” Chandler said, voice too calm.

“You don’t have to. I can feel you judging me.”

“I’m not judging you, Emerson.” It was almost a sigh, weighted with everything Chandler hadn’t said. “I’m just trying to understand you. I thought the therapy was helping?”

“It was!” He shook his head, dragging clawed fingers through his hair. “It _is_. I just… I don’t know what’s been going on lately. Sometimes it feels like everything’s going to be okay, that I can do this. But then something happens, something throws me, and I feel like I’m back to square one and… it’s just so frustrating. I… I think I almost preferred it when I didn’t have any hope.”

He shook his head again. That wasn’t entirely true either. He liked the good days. A lot. He liked them a whole lot more than the bad days. The days where he had to drag himself out of bed, the nights where he woke screaming and terrified, where he lived in a perpetual panic and freaked out over the simplest of things.

“I know you don’t really believe that,” Chandler said, sipping at his tea.

“No,” Kent agreed, reaching for and sipping at his own. It was still on the too-hot side. He blew lightly over the surface, trying another small sip before placing it back on the table. His tongue smarting from the burn.

“This has been happening more frequently.” Chandler said. It didn’t sound like a question and Kent supposed it wasn’t. More of an observation really. He couldn’t really deny it. Or explain it. His therapist probably could. And maybe that was the point of mentioning it.

Kent internally cringed. This time though, this time it was Kray-related. Or at least, in part. More Kray-related than his breakdown at work had been in any case.

“I think I just had a bit too much to drink tonight,” he said, staring into the murky depths of his mug. He shivered, feeling the phantom touch of whomever had reached out to touch his arse as if they had any right, any claim. The second he’d felt it he’d flashed back to his striping, to the Kray’s slamming him up against the wall and slicing him open like ripened fruit. He’d flashed back to the night the Incident Room was raided, the nights he’d woken screaming from nightmares, the panic attack he’d had after seeing what was left of Dan Street’s face.

“Emerson, stop.” Chandler’s voice pierced through him, pulling him back to the present. Chandler was holding his wrists, and it wasn’t until Kent looked up that he realised he must have been rubbing at his eyes because it took a moment for Chandler to come into focus.

He blinked, once, twice. Slanted his gaze away.

“Where else have you been scratching?” Chandler asked. Kent flushed, trying to pull his hands away. “You have blood on your fingers,” Chandler said, tightening his grip.

“I told you it’s not intentional.” Kent muttered.

“That’s not what I asked you.” There was an edge to Chandler’s voice.

Kent bristled. “You’re not my therapist!”

“Still not what I asked you.” His gaze was intense, unrelenting.

Kent looked away, angry now. He could feel his body thrumming with adrenaline, his fight or flight response leaning worryingly towards fight. He looked back again and winced to see the almost wounded look on Chandler’s face, as if he could read his intentions. Shame washed through him then, muting the roar in his mind.

“It’s nothing,” he said, voice softer, more vulnerable. He hated the sound of it.

“So you’ve said.” Came the clipped reply.

Kent clenched his teeth together. The frustration was still there though. The anger too. Bubbling just below the surface, coiled and ready to lash free. He felt himself tense up again, body readying itself just as Chandler released one of his hands. He snatched the freed limb back, pressing his arm almost protectively against his chest.

Chandler kept hold of his right hand however and Kent watched in wary curiosity as Chandler unfastened his cufflink, shoving the sleeve of his shirt a little way up his arm before rolling an elastic band from his wrist and over their joined hands to rest snugly around the bony part of Kent’s own wrist.

Kent frowned at him, questions pressing up against the seal of his lips.

He tried not to shiver as Chandler turned his arm around, dragging his fingers in a light tickle along the underside before slipping them beneath the elastic.

He wasn’t expecting the pull and _snap_ that came next.

Kent jumped, jerking his arm against Chandler’s hold, mouth open in speechless shock.

“How did that feel?” Chandler asked, calmly.

“Are you mad?” Kent snapped, wrenching his arm free with the next pull and hugging his wrist to his chest, rubbing at the sting. When he looked, a slight red line stood out, stark against the paleness of his skin.

He turned accusing eyes on Chandler.

“How did that feel?” Chandler asked still calm.

“It _hurt_! How do you think it felt?”

“Did it hurt more or less than what you’ve been doing to yourself?” Chandler asked then.

Kent froze, fingers stilling against his wrist. He didn’t know what to say to that. Chandler was watching him, almost seeing through him to everything he was feeling and thinking and Kent felt as though Chandler knew the answer already without him even having to open his mouth.

He looked back down at his wrist, heart hammering from the brief surge of adrenaline. The sting from the elastic had already faded, the red mark lingering only as a result of his rubbing over the spot.

Kent wet his lips. His hand shook as he slipped his index finger through the elastic, pulling it taunt before letting it snap out, pinching sharply at his skin. He sucked in a harsh breath.

“It’ll help,” Chandler said, as if answering some unspoken question. Answering as if he knew. As if he could possibly know. “It helped me.”

Kent swallowed against the words pressing up against his lips, questions that he wanted to ask but wasn’t sure he had the right. Chandler waited and Kent wondered if he was waiting for the question, maybe even expecting it, testing to see if he’d ask.

He wet his lips again, and asked.

Chandler’s smile was wry. “Sometimes my OCD isn’t that easy to control, or hide. Sometimes I need to snap myself out of whatever situation I find myself in. Alcohol and fisticuffs aren’t exactly discreet methods,” he admitted and Kent found himself smiling sympathetically back in remembrance. “not to mention a little frowned upon when we’re on the clock.”

He smiled more genuinely this time and Kent felt himself begin to relax again.

“Whenever you want to… block it all out, or focus on something else, try that instead.” He tilted his head towards the elastic.

Kent ran his fingers over it again. “Won’t you need it?”

Chandler offered him another wry smile. “I’ve snapped more than my fair few,” he said. “I’ve got a supply. If you need more.”

Kent sighed, curling his hand around the elastic. “This is so messed up.”

Chandler reached out, fingers touching lightly at his chin.

“Yes, it is.” He agreed and Kent chuckled, oddly surprised by the honesty.

Chandler stroked his fingers along his jaw. “But you’re not alone. I hope you know that.”

“I do, I- I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me since…” He drifted off, mouth pressing shut a moment. “You didn’t have to. _Don’t_ have to,” he amended. “You- you’ve been a good friend.”

The word tasted strange against his tongue. Chandler must’ve thought so as well if the furrowing of his brow was anything to go by. Kent felt himself colouring and looked away, not entirely sure why.

He didn’t know why he’d used that word. Only, maybe because Chandler had used it to class what he thought they were to each other once. Not his boss outside of work, anyway. Kent, well, to him it had always felt like more than just a friendship. And maybe that was what Miles had meant when he’d confronted Kent about it, about _them_.

“I should go,” he said then, sighing, defeated.

“You should stay,” Chandler countered, face soft and open in that way he sometimes got when they were together like this. When he wasn’t immediately consumed with worry or frustration over Kent.

“I mean, if you want to?” He added, thumb still moving in a gentle swipe across Kent’s jaw.

He did. Want. He wanted very much to stay here, with Chandler. And not just for one more night.

He ducked his head, dislodging Chandler’s hand with the gesture. Chandler moved back, giving him the space he hadn’t meant to ask for and Kent looked up again, the smile twisting his lips a little sad, a little wistful, but he nodded.

“Yeah, alright.” He agreed, despite himself.

Because one more night was better than never getting to spend another night with Chandler again.

\- - -

There was no knife this time. Somehow that was more terrifying that seeing the glint of a blade in his peripheral vision as he was pushed face first against the wall. There were hands on his shoulders, holding him down. There were hands on his hips and Kent sucked in a breath, feeling the harsh slide of them against his bare skin. He shivered, naked and nauseous as the hands moved down his outer thighs before sliding behind and up… up-

_No, God. Please no! Don’t! Stop. Please. Please!_

-dragging up the length of his scars. The touch burned, flared, _flayed_. He could feel his skin peeling apart, the flesh ripping anew, hot breath against the back of his neck, the hot trickle of blood running down his legs, a suddenly sharp _pressure_ -

Kent woke with a full body jerk, a scream clawing at the back of his throat as he lay, paralysed with fear and blinking wide unseeing eyes into the darkness surrounding him. Slowly, the room came into focus and Kent sucked in a shuddering breath. Just a dream. It was just a dream.

His heart was thundering against his ribcage as he pushed himself up, throwing the blankets aside. He felt too-hot and sick, stomach churning indecisively. He pulled his legs up onto the couch, burying his head against his knees. He was shivering, gasping for breath.

Just a dream.

He tried to calm himself, tried to breathe through the nausea and fear, tried to will his heart to cease its frenetic beating, but it was all for naught. His body was wracked with shivers, his stomach broiling indecisively, and he could still feel the acrid taste of a scream clawing at the back of his throat.

It was just a dream, he tried to tell himself. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening. _Hadn’t_ happened. Not like that. Never like that.

His skin still crawled and the tears he didn’t know he was crying wet through the fabric of his pyjama bottoms as he pressed his face against his knees. His scars smarted and Kent knew- _knew_ \- it was just from the pull of his position, he knew it was. And yet, there was still that something there at the back of his mind telling him that the dream was real, that he was being ripped open anew and that _they_ were still there, still around, just waiting, watching…

He grabbed at his head, nails sinking deeply into his scalp as he dragged them through his hair, trying to pull himself out of it. He felt the elastic he still wore around his wrist snag in his hair and he jerked his hands away, scrabbling desperately for it.

The first sting of the elastic against his skin had him sucking in a sharp gasp of air. The second had him releasing that same gasp in a slow breath. He tried to regulate his breaths then, in time with the snap of the elastic. The sudden bite always unexpected as it _snapped_ against his wrist. He focussed on that. On the pull-and-snap. On the bite of the band. He lost count of the number of times he snapped the elastic, stopping only when he had his breathing back under control, when his heart no longer felt as though it were trying to burst right out of his chest, when his wrist began to go numb and he could barely feel the snap anymore.

He shivered, hugging his arms around his knees once more. His wrist began to burn as he dragged it unconsciously against the fabric of his pyjamas; sensation beginning to creep in past the numbness. Kent dropped his head to his knees again, breathing deeply in through his nose and out again through his mouth.

He didn’t know how much time passed, how long he sat scared and shaking in the dark before the heard movement from Chandler’s room. He listened with half an ear, equally dreading and wanting the moment he came through and found Kent curled up on the couch in the aftermaths of yet another nightmare.

God. When would this _end_? He was so tired of this. So sick to death of the all consuming fear he felt every time he dreamed, remembered, flashed back. He just wanted it all to _stop_.

“Emerson?” Chandler’s voice was soft as he called to him.

Kent turned his head against his knees. His skin felt too-tight as he blinked against the blur of his eyes to find Chandler had turned on the hall light and stood, just at the edge of the room, watching him with worried eyes.

“I didn’t hear you,” he said when Kent said nothing. He wore only a pair of pyjama bottoms, no shirt, bare feet, his hair unconcernedly sleep-mussed.

“I didn’t scream,” Kent said hoarsely, tearing his eyes away. He tried to shrug but another shudder rushed through him, making his shoulder jerk uncomfortably. He tightened his grip around his legs, trying to squeeze the tremors out of his body.

Chandler came closer then, and Kent listened to the sound of his footsteps until he reached the couch and sat himself down beside him, body angling towards him, the invitation clear.

Kent didn’t hesitate. He moved into Chandler’s arms almost immediately, more than willing to let Chandler pull him close and hold him tight. It was automatic now to press his face up against Chandler’s neck, comforting to feel the press of Chandler’s mouth against his temple. His heart began to quicken anew and he clenched his fingers into fists against Chandler’s chest. 

Chandler didn’t say anything for a long moment as he pulled Kent in a little tighter, running a hand up and down the length of his back, easing the tremors wracking through his body.

Kent tried to focus on the gesture, on only the broad swipes of Chandler’s palm, tried to breath in time with the strokes, pushing everything else from his mind. Pushing the nightmare from his mind. But although Chandler made him feel safe, the fear lingered there at the edge of his mind and he wanted desperately for something to distract him from it.

His fingers tightened, nails cutting into his palms, and he found himself tensing all over again.

“It’s okay,” Chandler breathed, reacting to his distress. “You’re okay, Emerson.”

“No, I’m not.” He said, the words spilling from his lips.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Chandler asked. His mouth was dry against the sweat of Kent’s temple, his words a hot whisper, and Kent squeezed his eyes closed against the sensation.

“I can’t.” Kent whispered, turning his head against the press of Chandler’s, their cheeks brushing intimately together with the movement.

Chandler moved with him, pulling back a little and angling his head to better look at Kent.

Their faces were so close.

“Okay,” Chandler whispered back, his eyes flickering between Kent’s own. The word brushing across his face like a caress. Kent felt a rush of warmth wash over him. A flush of emotion so overwhelming he felt as though it would burst from him.

Without thinking he tilted his face up, pressing his mouth against Chandler’s.

It wasn’t a kiss so much as a dry press of lips against lips, but it was enough to startle a gasp out of Chandler and for reality to come crashing back down upon Kent.

He pulled away just as quickly, all but jerking himself out of Chandler’s arms as he pressed his hand to his mouth. His lips tingled and he stared in terrified horror at Chandler, watching as he pressed his own fingers to his lips a moment before looking at Kent.

“I’m sorry!” He blurted, panic bubbling inside him. Why did he do that? What the hell had he been thinking to do that? “I- I shouldn’t have done that.”

Chandler nodded carefully, wetting his lips and Kent found himself staring a heartbeat too long at his mouth. “Why did you?”

“I didn’t mean-,” He shook his head, “I mean I-,” he stopped, frustrated. “I’m so sorry, Joe.”

“It’s alright,” Chandler said, reaching out to take his hand. Kent pulled back as if burnt and shook his head again.

“It’s not. I shouldn’t’ve… I don’t think I should stay here anymore.”

“What?” It was almost an accusation. “Why not?”

Kent bit his lips closed.

“I said it was alright, Emerson. You’re still upset, I understand.”

His heart was still hammering against his chest. His skin prickling. It wasn’t alright. He’d meant it. Whether he was still upset or not he’d meant it. Maybe not consciously, and maybe he’d never have done it if not for the moment they’d been having, but the point was that he’d wanted to, always wanted to, and he’d acted on it. He’d acted on it and put Chandler in a position whereby he had to justify it for Kent.

And he couldn’t- _wouldn’t_ \- do that to him.

Chandler had given him so much time and caring, and here he was taking more than he ever deserved. More than was ever offered.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“You’re already forgiven,” Chandler said disquietly.

His fingers curled claws against his arms as he wrapped them around himself, words pressing insistently against the closed press of his lips. He swallowed them back, trying not to choke on the thickness of them.

“I should go.” He said, heart twisting.

“You should stay,” and Kent looked up, remembering the words from earlier in the night. Chandler wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look upset, at least not so much over Kent’s impromptu kiss so much as his reaction to having kissed him.

“I- I’ve taken enough of your time. This isn’t your problem.”

“If by ‘ _this_ ’ you mean you?” Chandler sighed. “You’re not a problem, Emerson. Not for me.”

Kent looked up at him. “Why?”

_Why not._

_Why are you taking this so well._

_Why are you still trying to help me?_

“Why did you kiss me?” Chandler asked softly in return. Kent felt his cheeks flame at Chandler’s words. The only light in the room came from the half-glow of the hall light, casting them into a kaleidoscope of highlighted colour and deep shadow. He was sure Chandler could see more of him than he could see of Chandler, and it made reading his expression all the more difficult.

Was he angry? Upset? Was the calming timbre of his voice merely a mask over how disappointed he really felt?

“I’m sorry,” he repeated for the third time. Nails biting in. Chandler either didn’t see or chose not to mention it. Kent squeezed harder, feeling the piercing give of skin beneath his fingertips.

“Miles tried to tell me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. Chandler straightened at his words.

“Miles?”

“Tried to warn me… said we- said _I_ was getting too close. I’ve… I’ve overstepped.”

“This doesn’t have to become an issue between us.”

But it already was. Kent had always been emotionally compromised when it came to Chandler, and though he didn’t want to be the one to end what they had together- even if Chandler never saw it as anything other than a friendship- he didn’t want to be the one to ruin it either.

“I- I think I’ll go back to sleep now,” he whispered, closing his eyes to avoid Chandler’s stare.

Chandler didn’t immediately move and Kent worried he’d push and prod until all his secrets came spilling out like blood from an open wound. His heart was in his mouth until he felt the give of the couch as Chandler pushed to his feet.

“You can talk to me,” Chandler said, sounding hurt. “You can talk to me about anything. I hope you know that.”

Kent didn’t answer and eventually Chandler left, the sound of his footsteps growing softer and softer. There came the click of the hall light and then silence. Chandler’s disappointment felt like a blanket around his shoulders, smothering him with guilt. He tried to shrug it off, but the more he tried not to think about Chandler, the more he found himself remembering the kiss.

It hadn’t been much of one. Not really. Only a second or two long. But Kent imagined he could still feel the press of Chandler’s mouth against his own. He pressed his fingers against his lips and wished he was brave enough to ask for it, for all of it.

He wanted to. Even now he still wanted to. To feel the giving slide of Chandler’s lips against his own, the questing press, the heat of his breath, the warm wetness of his mouth.

His eyes flew open, his breathing shuddery as he stared wide-eyed around the room.

He wondered what Chandler thought of him now. What, if anything, he’d do. And if he’d lose him. He was terrified that the first good thing to happen to him since the Kray’s had ruined his life was about to stop, and all because of some stupid kiss he hadn’t meant to give him.

By the time the sky began to lighten outside, the first tendrils of dawn stretching out across the room, Kent had managed to work himself into a state, thoughts and imagined scenarios viciously circling one another in his mind.

The flat was too quiet and the intrusion of morning into his musings if anything made the whole remembrance worse. Today would be the day. Today he would lose the only person that really mattered to him.

He hadn’t even been thinking about kissing Chandler. He just had. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. As if it were something he had always been allowed to do. Had any right to do.

His stomach churned. He wanted to curl up, tug the blanket that smelt dizzyingly of Chandler around his head and make believe everything would be alright. Instead he found himself pushing to his feet. He hugged his arms around himself. Feet cold against the floor as he cautiously began to make his way down the hall, past the bathroom and the study, Chandler’s open doorway looming menacingly before him.

He hesitated, standing there at the threshold. What was he doing here? What was he thinking? Chandler would still be sleeping. If one last look was what he needed he should just take it and go. Dress in the silence and slip out like a ghost. Work would be an issue in avoidance, but Kent had been through worse. Been through worse and survived- sort of. His hold on sanity was a slippery one at best.

The curtains in Chandler’s room were open, the early morning light spilling across the room to touch tenderly at his face. It was still dark in the room, but the dawn light was bright enough for him to see that Chandler wasn’t sleeping.

“Emerson?” Chandler called, pushing up onto an elbow. His voice was hoarse, his hair in an even worse disarray. “What’s wrong?”

“Did I wake you?” he whispered. Chandler shook his head and Kent winced inwardly. If he hadn’t been sleeping then it was because of Kent.

“I just, I wanted to say I’m sorry, Joe.” He said, twisting his fingers into his borrowed t-shirt. It was a little loose across the chest, but the fabric was soft, well-worn, and belonged to the man before him.

Chandler didn’t say anything.

“And that I don’t want to lose you,” he pressed on, voice pitched low. “I mean- I mean I know you’re not mine and I can’t just _say_ stuff like that but… but I wasn’t lying when I said you made me feel safe. You always make me feel safe. And you’re- you’re the only one who’s-,” he bit off his words, fingers running though his hair in frustration.

“Who’s what?” Chandler prompted when Kent broke off.

He wanted to say Chandler was the only one who’s ever cared, but that wasn’t strictly true. He did care in the way Kent needed him to though, with careful pushing when he knew Kent could handle it, with backing off when it was obvious he couldn’t, with his gentle touches and his tight holds, his arms cocooning Kent from the rest of the world.

He felt horrible about himself most of the time, the sentiment made worse by the paranoia that everyone who knew about him was judging him in every way he judged himself.

Chandler had never made him feel that way though. Had never given him a reason to ever think that he would.

Kent looked up with trepidation. “I kissed you,” he whispered.

His heart was thumping. He didn’t want to see that same look he thought he saw in everyone else’s eyes directed at him by Chandler. He couldn’t bear it. Even if Chandler didn’t feel the same way he did, the thought that he wouldn’t care enough to keep hold of them, of _him_ , was terrifying.

“I know,” Chandler said, softly.

Kent smiled forlornly. “I kissed you because I wanted to. I know I shouldn’t have and I’m sorry I put you in that position, but I wasn’t thinking about it. I just- it seemed only-,”

“-natural?” Chandler finished.

“Yeah,” Kent breathed out shakily. “Yeah, it was.”

Chandler smiled softly then and Kent felt his breath catch, watching as he reached over to tug the corner of his duvet up in invitation, his eyes never leaving Kent’s as he shifted a little across the bed.

He took an automatic step forward before stopping himself, eyes flittering between Chandler and the space he’d made for him.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

“Joe?” He breathed, heart in his throat. He’d only come to see Chandler to apologise, to maybe have to say goodbye. He’d fully expected Chandler to put a stop to their- friendship.

And yet here he was, covers pulled back in an invitation that was hard to misinterpret.

Kent hesitated. The choice was his.

But what choice exactly.

“I thought-,” he took a tentative step forward.

“You’re not the only one Miles thinks is getting too close,” Chandler said simply.

“But you- I- I didn’t think-?” Kent stuttered, not daring to hope.

“Did he tell you?” Chandler asked.

Kent nodded, stopping at the foot of Chandler’s bed.

“You didn’t believe him?”

“Of course not!” Kent all but exclaimed, surprised by the surprise on Chandler face.

“I thought that’s why you were so upset.” Chandler said, pushing up a little. “When Miles said you’d run off I assumed-,”

Kent shook his head, vehement and disbelieving. “No, I- I threw myself into your arms, didn’t I?”

Chandler shot him a wry smile and Kent inched forward until he was sitting beside Chandler on the mattress, legs curling up beside him. Chandler reached out, his fingers curling around Kent’s own.

“I assumed he hadn’t told you then. He’d been threatening to do it, but you know what Miles is like, when it comes to us he’s all bark.”

“There’s a bit more than bark to him,” Kent muttered and Chandler squeezed at his hand.

“His heart is in the right place,” he defended. “And he’s not wrong. This could ruin us if- if there was an _us_.”

Kent sucked in a deep breath. “You’re not- you’re not mad then?”

“How could I be?” Chandler asked, as if the whole thing was as simple as that. Kent sucked in another breath, feeling shuddery and too-hot.

“I would never have acted on my feeling for you though,” Chandler admitted. “No more than I’ve already allowed myself to show them.”

Kent didn’t know if he wanted to run away or throw himself into Chandler’s arms. It was still on the side of too-dark in the room, their words half-whispered in the darkness and Kent could almost believe this entire conversation was some feverish dream his mind had conjured up to torment him.

“Why?” he whispered and Chandler smiled, lifting his hand to kiss at his knuckles.

“Because I’m not entirely convinced you don’t just feel this way about me because of the way I’ve been there for you, because I’ve- because I’ve somehow manipulated the way you feel about me since that day I came to see you in the hospital.”

“No,” Kent breathed out, his fingers now clutching urgently at Chandlers. “You haven’t. I’ve felt how I feel about you since the moment we met.” He ducked his head. “Sort of. I- it’s- I do feel more for you now, and it is because of how you’ve been there for me, but… but I’ve always- _always_ \- wanted you.”

“Emerson,” and Chandler was pushing up into his space, his other hand coming up to cup at his jaw.

A hotness ran through him then, thundering his heart and drying his mouth. “I- Joe-,” he didn’t finish, didn’t wait for Chandler to make the next move.

Throwing it all to the wind, Kent leant in.

He felt the puff of warm air against his lips as he held his mouth an inch away from Chandler’s before he pushed in, pressed their mouths together and moved his lips across Chandler’s in a kiss.

\- - - 


	4. through glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Kent makes some decisions he never thought he’d have to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **}** [37stitches @ livejournal](http://cs-whitewolf.livejournal.com/351804.html)  
>  **}** [37stitches @ tumblr](http://campaspe.tumblr.com/tagged/on-writing%3A-37stitches)

His eyes burned, gritty and tired, but he didn’t dare close them. Barely dared to blink them, afraid that if he closed his eyes for even a second too long he’d wake up to find this was all some kind of dream.  
  
The room was a little brighter now, the morning light streaming in through Chandler’s partly drawn curtains, highlighting his face in sleep.  
Kent drank in every inch of it, raking his gaze over the dishevelled mess of his hair as it fell loosely over his forehead; the fan of his lashes against his cheeks; the too-warm flush of his skin; the way his lips parted in sleep, mouth slack and still pink with the kisses they’d shared only a few hours earlier.  
   
Kent felt his own cheeks warm at the reminder. Even lying as he was in Chandler’s bed, wrapped in Chandler’s arms, he barely believed it.  
   
He’d thought for sure Chandler would push him aside, would tell him that his actions- that his _friendship_ \- were not wanted. Kissing him for a second time had been deliberate. The way Chandler had been looking at him, speaking to him, _touching_ him… Kent’s heart had been in his mouth but he’d done it anyway.  
   
And Chandler had kissed him back.  
   
Oh how he’d kissed him back!  
   
Kent pressed his fingers to his lips, imagining he could still feel the tingle of Chandler’s mouth moving against his own. His eyes fluttered briefly closed at the memory, recalling the hot slide of Chandler’s lips as they dragged across his, the wet warmth of his mouth, the way it made his heart stutter and his breathing hitch.  
   
Chandler had left him dizzy with breathlessness when he’d pulled away, pressing their foreheads together, his mouth hovering close enough to Kent’s that he could feel every gasp of breath against the wetness of his lips.  
   
It felt terrifyingly beautiful; intimate. And Kent hadn’t realised he’d been shaking until Chandler pulled back a little more, their eyes finding each other in the half-  
dark.  
   
He hadn’t asked, not then, just ran his hands soothingly up the length of Kent’s arms before drawing him close and urging him under his covers. He didn’t think he’d ever felt more safe than he did when Chandler pulled him into his arms, and Kent went willingly; pressing himself up against the warmth of Chandler’s bare chest, his hands touching eagerly at his shoulders, his neck.  
   
Chandler had slid one arm beneath his head, curling it around his back to cradle him close. The other he’d lifted to Kent’s face, his fingers eager as they stroked across his jaw, his forehead, through his hair, urging Kent’s head back a little so that he could seal their mouths together once more.  
   
Kent remembered biting back a moan, his fingers tightening against Chandler’s shoulders, unable to stop the soft shudders running through his body. Part of it was the adrenaline rushing through him, the rest: a touch of fear, and relief. Excitement too. He’d felt electrified, but too full of conflicting emotions.  
   
And when Chandler ended their kiss, all Kent wanted was to push every thought and worry down, to ignore all those feelings in favour of chasing Chandler’s mouth for one last kiss.  
   
But he didn’t. Didn’t quite dare. Still hesitated to take what he wanted even though he knew his want was reciprocated. After everything he’d been through last night (and for what counted of this morning too), Kent was starting to feel more than a little wrung out, as if he’d used up the last of his energy just by kissing Chandler, by confessing the feelings he’d never thought could be returned.  
   
“It’s okay,” Chandler breathed into the space between their mouths, hands stroking, soothing, curling Kent into his arms and pressing his lips to his temple.  
   
Instinctively, Kent pressed his face against Chandler’s neck, breathing deep the scent of him and letting his weight and warmth envelope him until the shivers subsided and he was left feeling drained and empty, but strangely content too.  
   
He’d almost been able to convince himself that this was okay, that this could work. Sleep had started creeping its way over him, his body heavy and warm as he listened to the stages of Chandler’s breathing evening out as they lay together.  
   
And then he’d started to question everything; the worry and fear he constantly carried around inside began to crawl its way into his thoughts.  
   
He wanted this.  
   
Desperately so.  
   
He wanted this with every fibre of his being.  
   
But how could he want anything, how could he accept anything, when he wasn’t the person he should be? When he wasn’t okay? When he wasn’t _fixed_.  
   
When he may never be fixed again?  
   
Was it fair to take so much from Chandler when he could barely give anything back? Sometimes he felt as though he just took everything Chandler offered, and kept taking. And he didn’t want to be that person. The one who couldn’t reciprocate the effort, the time. The one who was always too messed up to give and reassure and be the strong one for a change.  
   
God. What kind of person was he?  
   
And maybe it was only a kiss. Maybe it didn’t mean anything out with tonight. Maybe it would never be anything other than a momentary weakness on both their parts…  
   
But if it wasn’t. If it _did_ mean something. If it could lead to something more…  
   
Then Kent couldn’t be the man he was. He couldn’t live this half-life, dragging himself through the days and weeks, always on high alert, always wondering when the next trigger would come along, wondering when it would all just _end_.  
   
He didn’t want to be… _broken_.  
   
He wanted to _try_. If not for himself, then for Chandler. Because neither of them deserved him like this. No matter what Chandler said, he didn’t want to be the problem he came to regret, to resent.  
   
Kent pulled carefully away from Chandler- even though he wanted nothing more than to press himself in as far as he could for however long he could- and let his eyes drink in the sight of him.  
   
He stayed like that, eyes burning with the itch of tiredness, as dawn became early morning, became late morning. Somewhere between the two the light began to stutter, the heavy clouds from the night before skulking back across the sky to block out the sun inch by inch. It started to rain soon after; the sound of it flicking against the windows loud in the quiet of Chandler’s flat.  
   
Chandler shifted then and Kent tensed, dropping his gaze quickly, not wanting to be caught staring. He needn’t have worried though, for even as Chandler rolled himself over onto his back- the arm that had once wrapped tightly around him but which now lay slack across his waist slid away with the motion, coming to rest on Chandler’s own stomach- he was still asleep.  
   
Kent felt his mouth go a little dry as he let his eyes rove over Chandler’s bare chest; smooth and firm, the light smattering of blond hair that appeared the further down his gaze drifted made his fingers twitch and his cheeks heat. He swallowed heavily, guiltily, turning his gaze back to Chandler’s face.  
   
He bit at his lip. He looked so calm in sleep. No frown to crease his brow, no downward turn of his mouth, no care to keep him awake. He wished he could sleep that easy.  
   
Turning his head, Kent pressing a soft kiss to the arm still splayed across his pillow before he carefully climbed out of Chandler’s bed and shuffled his way out of the room feeling heavy and despondent.  
   
Why couldn’t he have just let himself have the moment?  
   
Why did he always have to ruin it?  
   
He made his way into the kitchen, navigating by the dull light stretching in from the living room and set about making himself a cup of coffee, knowing he’d need as much caffeine as he could consume if he was going to survive the rest of the day on the little to no sleep he’d managed last night.  
   
He should probably think about getting washed and dressed, about leaving. His heart thumped a little louder at the thought of facing Chandler when he woke. Of having the conversation he knew they were going to have to have.  
   
It could really only go one of two ways, and Kent knew that no matter how much he wanted it, he couldn’t- shouldn’t have it. Not like this.  
   
He’d barely sat himself at the kitchen island, his mug cradled in his palms when he heard the first rustlings of movement come from Chandler’s room. He took a sip of his drink, swallowing against the bitter taste, the burn, body tensing in preparation.  
   
“Morning,” Chandler mumbled easily, rubbing at his face as he finally came into view.  
   
Kent had to put his coffee down at the sight of him. He’d literally just stumbled out of bed: hair rumpled, topless, pyjama bottoms hanging obscenely low upon his hips.  
   
He swallowed convulsively; throat suddenly dry. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, he knew that, but somehow seeing him like this- in the stark light of day- made it unbelievably real and touchable. Like he had permission to look his fill, to _want_.  
   
“You been up long?” Chandler asked, oblivious to his staring as he propped himself up against the island beside him and leant in, pressing his mouth to Kent’s temple with a casualness that made his heart lurch.  
   
When he pulled back, he picked up Kent’s coffee and took a long sip of it, mouth settling almost over the same spot Kent had been drinking from. A shiver of warmth ran through him then and he opened his mouth, sucking in a quick gasp of air before he dropped his head, needing to look away.  
   
He curled his fingers together, tightly.  
   
Chandler offered him a sleepy smile when he looked back; the temptation was too much, and Kent couldn’t help the soft- almost hopeful- curl of a smile he gave in return. And it felt like a moment. Like a possibility. A promise. As if they could spend every morning together like this, sharing kisses and coffee.  
   
“Did you get any sleep?” Chandler asked, lifting one hand from the mug to thumb gently at the skin beneath his left eye.  
   
Kent could only shrug, a non-answer. He reached for his mug and Chandler released it willingly, letting him hide himself in sip after sip until- almost finished- he put it down with a half-hearted sigh.  
   
“I had a lot on my mind.” He offered after a time, hunching in on himself.  
   
Chandler inclined his head towards him. “Anything you want to share?”  
   
Kent hesitated, briefly, before nodding, his eyes downcast. “About- about last night.”  
   
Chandler was silent a moment, before: “Which part?”  
   
Kent felt a different kind of shiver run through him as he thought of the scene he’d made at the pub, of the nightmare he’d had as a result, of the conflicted happiness he’d felt at being wrapped in Chandler’s arms, losing himself in Chandler’s kisses.  
   
“All of it, I guess.” He chewed at the inside of his mouth. He’d almost forgotten about Mansell’s engagement party, the magnitude of it overshadowed by his angsting over whether or not he could have a functional relationship with Chandler.  
   
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his brain.  
   
It just went to show how messed up he really was.  
   
Though at least he wasn’t too messed up to want to drag Chandler into it with him.  
   
He deserved so much better than someone who could barely function in the day to day. He’d tried to con himself into believing that he could get through this, that he didn’t need help or support, that swallowing back the bilious taste of fear every day was just something he had to do to function, to _cope_. He’d tried to convince himself that he was okay, that nobody _knew_ , that nobody could tell. He’d told himself so many lies since the attack…  
   
He didn’t want to lie to Chandler.  
   
But at the same time, could he honestly open himself up to him? To expose every raw-ended nerve and fibre of his being?  
   
He didn’t want Chandler to see him like this, to always think of him as some frail thing in need of protecting.  
   
He wanted- no, he _needed_ \- them to be equal.  
   
He needed to sort himself out. Properly. Before he let this go any further.  
   
But when he looked back up at Chandler the words dried up in his mouth. It was so much easier to rationalise what he wanted to say in his head, but all he could think about when he actually looked at the other man was the taste of him, the feel of him, how desperately he’d always wanted to try with him. _For him_.  
   
“I don’t know how to start.” He admitted, teeth digging into his bottom lip.  
   
Chandler reached out, touching at his mouth and pulling his lip free. “If you’re having second thoughts about what happened between us, that’s okay, Emerson. You know that, right?”  
   
“I’m not- I just-,” he trailed off, turning his head away. He was. But not the way Chandler probably thought. He struggled to find the words to say that he didn’t want Chandler to feel obliged, like he’d have to deal with his issues.  
   
“I shouldn’t be putting you in this position,” he managed after a while.  
   
“You said something similar last night.” Chandler said, straightening a little. Kent shrugged.  
   
“What are you saying?” he asked. Kent looked at him then, at the way he’d folded his arms across his chest and he considered the possibility that he’d already somehow hurt Chandler.  
   
“I don’t know,” he said quietly, reaching out to touch at Chandler’s arms; fingers curling around his forearms below the elbow. “I don’t know what last night meant for you-,”  
   
“Emerson-,” he squeezed at Chandler’s arms, pressing on.  
   
“-but it meant something to me. Meant _too much_ to me. And I just- I don’t want to ruin this, whatever it is- whatever it _could_ be- because of me, my issues.”  
   
“What do you want?” Chandler asked, slowly, carefully.  
   
Kent swallowed heavily. “I don’t want to be an obligation. I don’t want you to do this just because I want to. I- I want to be whole, for you.” He felt his cheeks flush with colour before he’d even finished and had to drop his eyes.  
   
God. Chandler hadn’t even said how he felt about the whole thing and here he was all but professing his love for the man. He was pretty sure he never meant to say that last part out loud. He dropped his hands from Chandler’s arms and curled them around himself, uncaring of how vulnerable it made him look.  
   
“Until then… I don’t think we should-” he didn’t finish. Just bit off the words before he could get that far. He didn’t want to lose this. He really didn’t.  
   
There was a moment of silence between them. And it seemed to drag on and on before Chandler finally spoke, his voice careful, unreadable as he said: “If you think that’s best.”  
   
And Kent dug his fingers into his arms, trying to pretend that the lack of protest on Chandler’s behalf didn’t hurt like hell. What on earth had he been thinking?  
   
He hadn’t. Clearly.  
   
He’d wanted that level of comfort from Chandler and he’d taken it without properly thinking of the consequences for both of them. Sure Chandler had kissed him, but he could only assume it had been in response to Kent’s own wants and needs.  
   
Chandler touched at his shoulders, his hands warm as he stroked once down the lengths of his arms before he reached up and took Kent’s face in his hands, nudging his chin up and encouraging Kent to meet his eyes.  
   
“You’re not an obligation,” he said softly, eyes flickering between Kent’s. “I think I already told you that, but in case you’ve forgotten, you never have been. You’re not an obligation or a problem or a burden or anything else you could possibly come up with. And most of all, you’re not putting me in a position I haven’t let myself get into.”  
   
Kent felt himself begin to shake and he reached up to curl his hands around Chandler’s wrists as if for anchorage. “If you’re not ready, if you really want to stop this before it starts, that’s okay. Nothing has to change between us.” Chandler breathed out, thumbs stroking against Kent’s cheekbones. “But if you want to try, then I want to try too,” he finished in a whisper.  
   
He leant in slowly, eyes fixed on Kent’s own, his intention clear and Kent felt the anticipation like a squeezing hand around his heart. The press of Chandler’s lips when they reached his own sent a quiver through him: his eyes fluttering closed; his mouth softening under the pressure of Chandler’s own. He felt the moan slip past his lips before he could bite it back but it served only to encourage Chandler further; his lips moving, parting, and Kent opened beneath him, breathing shakily as Chandler licked his way inside him.  
  
Oh how he wanted this. It was only a kiss. Only a few kisses. But how could he ever dream of giving this up? Now that he’d had a taste of it? He felt selfish and spoilt but if Chandler wanted it too, if he said he wanted to- how could he say no?  
   
Chandler’s hands moved from his face and Kent dropped his hold on his wrists, reaching to curl his arms around Chandler’s shoulders as Chandler wrapped his own around Kent’s waist, pulling him in.  
   
They traded kisses for long minutes, slow and careful, barely pausing for breath until Kent could barely tell where one kiss ended and another began. He never wanted this to end. Never wanted to give this up.  
   
Chandler’s hands squeezed careful encouragement, slipping from his waist to his hips, fingertips pressing at the dip of his back, just skimming the band of his pyjama bottoms and suddenly Kent froze, his mind stuttering between fight and flight as for one terrifying moment he expected those hands to keep going, to grab, to touch, to _know_.  
   
“Emerson?” Chandler questioned, his breath ghosting across his cheek as he pulled back, and Kent turned away. It was all he could do not to shove Chandler back, to run and hide himself away, to keep the panic broiling just below the surface of him at bay. He wanted to speak, to let Chandler know how uncomfortable he felt but the words stuck in his throat and left him standing immobile, tense, terrified. Speechless.  
   
Slowly, carefully, he felt Chandler’s hands move away, move up and up until they settled tentatively at his waist once more and Kent felt the tension leave him like a snapped band. He dropped his head to Chandler’s shoulder with a choked curse, and Chandler raised his arms further still to wrap them around his shoulders in a hug.  
   
“We’ll figure this out,” he promised against his temple. “Together. If you’ll let me.”  
   
“What if- what if I can’t-,” he pressed his face into Chandler’s neck. “What if I’ll never be me again?”  
   
“You are you, Emerson.”  
   
“But- but what if I can’t promise more. Than this. From me.” The words came out stammered, half-strangled, his heart constricting in his throat. He wasn’t scared at the thought of intimacy with Chandler, but the thought of him seeing his scars was enough to make his stomach churn with sickness. He didn’t know if he could ever let another person touch him like that, not even Chandler, not when every touch below his waistline made him freak out and threw him into an irrational panic.  
   
What if he would always be like this? Broken. Damaged.  
   
“You’re not broken,” Chandler whispered, as if he’d spoken aloud. “Maybe you’re a little more damaged than you were before it all, but you’re still just as strong and stubborn. Maybe more so than you think you are.”  
   
Kent sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t feel strong.” He admitted. “I don’t feel like I even know how to be strong anymore.”  
   
Chandler’s arms tightened and then loosened and Kent took that as his cue to release his own hold, with reluctance. He took a small step back but Chandler took hold of him before he could take another.  
   
“I don’t need anything more than what you’re willing to give me.” He said, softly, seriously.  
   
Kent looked at him, feeling raw and fragile in his grip.  
   
“I mean it, Emerson. I don’t need anything else. If this is all we have then it’s all we’ll have. And if you decide this isn’t what you want, I’ll respect that decision too.”  
   
God. What had he ever done to deserve a man like Chandler in his life? He swallowed past the lump in his throat. Hating that he could go from unbelievably happy to this desolate mess within seconds. And despite it all, Chandler still wanted to try?  
   
“But what about you?” he asked. “What about what you want?”  
  
Chandler’s smile was wry, self depreciating. “I’m not the kind of man who finds it easy to fall for someone. And I’m also not the kind of man who can- who can be with someone I haven’t fallen for.” He took a deep breath and Kent could see the effort he made to look him in the eye as he spoke.  
   
“If we never shared anything more than this- than a kiss or a hug- I’d be okay with that, because I like _you_ , Emerson, not what you could give me. I don’t need that, I never have. Does that- do you understand?”  
   
Kent nodded slowly, offering Chandler a wobbly smile. “I like you too,” he said and Chandler huffed a little, the corner of his mouth twitching up.  
   
“And, um,” he ducked his head briefly before forcing himself to look up into Chandler’s eyes. “If there’s anything you- if you can’t- I don’t need more either.”  
   
Chandler was smiling a little more now, a flush to his cheeks Kent rarely saw but rather liked. “I never thought I’d ever have this kind of conversation with my boss,” he said then, jokingly, pressing his hands to Chandler’s chest. Because he could.  
   
“I’m not your boss outside of work,” Chandler reminded him without another huff of amusement, and suddenly Kent knew what he had to do.  
   
“Actually… I need to speak to you. As my boss. If- if that’s okay?” He looked up, hesitant.  
   
Chandler inclined his head, gaze questioning. “Okay,” he agreed, before looking between them, at the place where Kent’s fingers ran reverently along his clavicle. “Do I need to be dressed for this conversation?”  
   
Kent shook his head, mouth curling slightly. “I need to request some time off,” he said, the words pouring from his mouth before he could stop himself. “There’s nothing going on at work right now, no new cases, and I really think I should do this now- sort myself out I mean-,”  
   
“Yes,” Chandler interrupted. “Of course yes. If that’s what you think you need, then you can take as much time as you need.”  
   
Kent sighed with relief and Chandler offered him a quizzical frown. “Did you really think I’d say no?”  
   
“No, it’s not- I just, I never thought I’d ask.” Never thought he’d have to ask. Never wanted to be the kind of man who had to ask.  
   
“You’ve been running from the idea for a while now.” He agreed.  
   
“Yeah. Yeah I guess I have.” He gave Chandler a wry sort of smile. “Denial and all that.”  
   
Chandler tightened his grip slightly and Kent looked up at him. “Can I still see you?”  
   
“I’m not letting you do this alone,” Chandler said, matter-of-factly, leaning in to press their foreheads together. “Anytime you want me, anytime you feel even the least bit unsafe, just call me.”  
   
 - - -  
   
   
It felt like every drop of moisture in his body had suddenly migrated to his hands, leaving his mouth arid and his palms sweaty. It was as though he were starting his first day of work all over again; heart pounding, stomach twisting knots. Kent thought he’d prepared himself for the stares, the whispered comments he couldn’t quite hear but which paranoia dictated were meant for him, but he hadn’t, not entirely.  
   
It was almost frightening to see just how much of a bubble he’d been living in before he’d taken the time off work. People he had barely spoken to out with the cases that called for extra personnel had offered him polite nods and sympathetic smiles, as if they _knew_. And they probably did. He had only been lying to himself when he thought that he could keep his issues hidden behind long hours, mounds of paperwork and an unhealthy dose of denial.  
   
The four weeks he’d taken off from work had made him address quite a few home truths about himself and what he’d been doing both to himself and to those around him. He wasn’t ‘ _cured_ ’, of course. But he… he was better now than he had been. Healthier, he supposed. Or at least he was trying to deal with his triggers in a healthier way.  
   
He’d cut his nails as short as they would go, bought a box of elastic bands and a stress ball. He’d upped his therapy from once a week to twice, sometimes three if his shrink pushed him hard enough. And he wasn’t… omitting anything. He tried to be as honest with her as he could be with himself and… and it really felt as though it was working. As if he was ready. Ready to take back his life and start living instead of existing in the day to day, too terrified to confront the darkness within himself.  
   
He wasn’t pushing people away either. Not as much as he had been anyway. There’d been a few days towards the start of his leave that had seen him on a downward spiral, cocooning himself away from the world. Everything that had happened with Miles, the scene he’d caused in the pub, things with Chandler taking an unexpected turn, and him officially taking the time off work had all seemed to coalesce into something that left him feeling both hollow and raw. He’d lay, huddled beneath his duvet, for almost two days before his flatmates had staged an intervention and called Chandler.  
   
He’d been too out of it to really be embarrassed about it at the time, too unglued to even wonder at his flatmates knowing to call Chandler over anyone else. All he was really aware of during those first few days was waking on the third day to find Chandler lying atop his bed covers beside him. He was dressed for work: jacket and shoes still on, and Kent knew he must have dropped everything else to be there in that moment.  
   
It was humbling. And heart-wrenching. What had he ever done to deserve this kind of dedication outside of wanting it?  
   
“I’m sorry,” he’d said, voice raw from disuse.  
   
Chandler’s smile was soft and sad as he leant in and pressed his mouth to Kent’s temple, left his lips pressed there a moment as he sighed out through his nose, and Kent had closed his eyes, tears prickling at the corners, fingers desperately scrabbling for a tighter hold of his duvet.  
   
“Don’t be sorry,” Chandler had said, his words whispered across his skin.  
   
He’d stayed longer than he should have, a phone call from work interrupting the half-doze they’d both fallen into. Seeing the look of indecision on Chandler’s face had been enough to get Kent up and moving. He didn’t want to be that person. Didn’t want to be the reason Chandler had to keep putting his life on hold. He was supposed to be getting better, fixing himself, so that he could function like a normal human being again and not this husk of a person he’d been before. He’d promised himself. He’d all but promised Chandler too.  
   
And getting up out of bed, getting himself washed and dressed and fed, if that was only the first of many steps, then he’d take it.  
   
Because he had to. And not just for himself.  
   
Baby steps.  
   
The next of which had been to phone his therapist.  
   
And he’d gone from there. Routine, appointments, lessons in non-avoidance, learning what his triggers where and how to safely confront and or react to them.  
   
He’d felt like he was getting somewhere with it all.  
   
Until he didn’t.  
   
There had always been more bad days than good ones. And as much as Kent liked to think he’d changed, that things were getting better now, there was always something waiting to throw him off his game: A gut-wrenching nightmare; an unavoidable brush with a stranger; a doctor’s appointment he’d been putting off for months. All of it left him shaken, panicked, shoving blood stained fingers against his eyelids, dragging ragged nails through his scalp.  
   
The guilt came then, the shame, the worry that he’d forever be taking one step forward and two steps back. Why couldn’t he just function like he had before? Why was he still so hung up on what had happened to him? Why did he let it all affect him so badly?  
   
He barely remembered the man he used to be. This strong and stubborn man Chandler said he used to be. Said he still was. Kent couldn’t see it, couldn’t see anything past this cowed vision of himself.  
   
And sometimes that made him angry. Made him despise himself, made him hate himself, made him wish he could…  
   
But no. The trick was to keep going. To keep trying. To push through all the frustration and pain and maybe, just maybe he’d come out the other side only a little bit more scarred.  
   
It had been a long four weeks. And at the same time they had been far too short.  
   
He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to do it alone. Wasn’t sure he’d even be standing here at all if it wasn’t for Chandler. Kent could barely stand himself most days, especially the bad ones, and yet Chandler never turned him away, never made him feel unwanted.  
   
He just sat with him. Sometimes he made him talk, other times he did the talking: about everything and nothing; little secrets about himself; innocent stories about his childhood; darker stories about his own demons. And Kent shared too: about this and that; half-remembered dreams; missing the connection he once had with his family, his sister; wild nights out with his flatmates once upon a time.  
   
Sometimes he felt that these quiet moments with Chandler were better than any shrink session. It was all so much more personal, connected, left him feeling flush with life instead of drained and weary, dreading an inevitable night of nightmares.  
   
The only nights he knew he was safe from dreams were the nights he’d spent with Chandler, safe in Chandler’s arms. He’d actually let himself sleep those nights too, curled up close in a way he’d never believed he could have, wrapped in the scent and warmth of him, his mouth still thick with the taste of him.  
   
Kent bit back a smile at the memory such thoughts conjured before mentally shaking it from his mind. He didn’t have time for ruminations. Not when he was supposed to stepping into the Incident Room for his first day back on the job, not when the colleagues he hadn’t seen much less spoken to since leaving were waiting just beyond those doors.  
   
He sucked in a deep breath. How much more nerve wracking that walking through the front doors of the Whitechapel Police Department could it really be?  
   
Kent sucked in another breath. And another, smoothing his hands down the length of the dark tie he noosed around his neck. He could do this.  
   
A part of him fervently wished he’d taken Chandler up on his offer to drive him into work this morning, if only to share the burden of the stares that immediately zeroed in on him as stepped into the room, the door clattering shut behind him.  
   
Kent gave a half smile and an awkward sort of wave, his eyes roving over the room, drinking in all the ways it _hadn’t_ changed in the time he’d been gone, until he could no longer avoid looking at the people in the room.  
   
Miles offered him a nod and a gruff welcome as he came over and clapped him on the back before squeezing at his shoulder.  
   
“It’s good to have you back,” he said with a seriousness that made Kent’s nerves instantly dissipate. Most of them anyway. He’d been the most worried about Miles’ reception of him. After how he’d left things between them after Miles’ attempt at an intervention especially.  
   
“It’s good to be back, Serg,” Kent returned, smiling for the first time since waking this morning.  
   
“Alright, Kent?” Mansell asked, coming up to him and nudging his shoulder against Kent’s own.  
   
“Yeah,” he agreed, turning to smile at Mansell too before he heard his name called out. And not just the ‘Kent’ he was used to hearing around the department either. He turned quickly, mouth dropping open at the sight of DC Megan Riley coming towards him with a huge grin on her face.  
   
The last time he’d seen her she’d dragged him out onto the dance floor at Mansell’s engagement party. That had been just before… before…  
   
She had her arms around him before Kent could finish that thought, enveloping him in a massive hug.  
   
“You still owe me a dance, Mr, don’t think I didn’t notice you’d bailed on me!” She said, pulling away with a wink. Kent blinked at her, shocked into speechlessness first by her appearance in the Incident Room and then at the welcome he’d received from her.  
   
Miles stepped in quickly, shooing both her and Mansell away. “Alright, alright enough. Back to work you lot. Let the guy settle back in before you accost him some more.”  
   
They went easily enough, laughing like old friends, and Kent turned to Miles unable to school his confusion.  
   
“Joe didn’t tell you?” Miles asked, frowning.  
   
Kent shook his head. “We didn’t talk about work,” he said, eyes trailing over to the desk Riley had claimed as her own.  
   
“They don’t know,” Miles said and Kent’s eyes snapped back to him. “What happened at Mansell’s do,” he clarified. “Or why you’ve been off. Mansell probably has an inkling but there hasn’t been anything said.”  
   
Miles cleared his throat. “So, you can tell them what you like. Or not.”  
   
Kent nodded, offering Miles a quick smile. “Thanks, Serg.”  
   
Miles nodded once before moving away and Kent made his way towards his own desk. It looked almost exactly how he’d left it. Clean, organised, there wasn’t even any dust, though his pens and post-it pad seemed to have gone missing. He felt himself quirk a smile as he pulled his chair out to sit and began to set his things out. Like he’d never left.  
   
The door to Chandler’s office opened and he looked immediately up but it was only Miles going in to see him. He didn’t know if Chandler had seen him come in or not, and was a little disheartened that he hadn’t been one of the ones to welcome him back. Which was silly, seeing as he’d seen Chandler the night before last, and had actively refused to let Chandler bring him in this morning.  
   
“I hope your detecting skills are better than your dancing skills!” Kent twisted his chair around at the call, thoughts immediately diverting from Chandler.  
   
Riley was grinning at him and Kent tried for offended but found himself grinning back instead as he remembered _her_ dancing skills. “Why, we got a case I need to be brushing them up on?” he threw back.  
   
There was a split second of hesitation before Riley laughed, too bright and loud, her gaze skittering across to Mansell and then back again. “No, no!” She tried, smiling wide. “Just checking you’re not too rusty! We have an exciting day of cold cases ahead of us.”  
   
She was lying. And if the way Mansell was not-quite meeting his eyes was anything to go by, he knew it too.  
   
“It’ll be like I never left,” he allowed, smile slipping.  
   
The door to Chandler’s office opened again and Kent started to turn himself back around, but not before he caught the look Riley and Mansell shared, their faces scrunching with exaggerated grimaces.  
   
Miles was watching them when Kent finally turned his chair back to his desk, his stare a little too intent.  
   
“Alright, Skip?” Mansell called out and Miles shot him a pointed look before moving towards his desk.  
   
“Haven’t you got some files that need digging up from the archives?” he started to say but Kent zoned out, his attention immediately captured as Chandler moved into the doorway; his gaze was fond and he was smiling as he looked towards him.  
   
“Welcome back,” he said and Kent found himself smiling again, softly, more genuinely.  
   
“Thank you, sir,” he replied, ducking his head a little.  
   
“Shall we do you return to work now?” Chandler asked, gesturing for Kent to enter his office.  
   
Kent nodded, pushing up from his seat and following Chandler into the room. The first thing he noticed was the haphazard stacks of paperwork scattered across his desk, the sheer untidiness of it all a surprise even though Kent could see a conscious effort had been made to put everything into some kind of organised chaos.  
   
He shot Chandler a disbelieving look, watching as Chandler winced and reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose in response.  
   
“I asked Mansell to bring me a few files,” he offered by way of explanation and Kent thought this constituted as more than just a few. He spied an autopsy report amongst the manila folders, recently dated, but let his eyes skim past it with another smile.  
   
These weren’t cold cases.  
   
“Do you need a hand with them, sir?” he asked, clasping his hands in his lap as Chandler gestured for him to sit.  
   
“No, thank you. We’re just going through some of the older files,” he waved his hand as if to dismiss it, pulling a sheet of paper from his top draw and placing it on the small square of desk space left available to him.  
   
They went through the return to work form easily enough. Kent thought that Chandler could probably have filled the entire thing in himself, the amount of time they’d spent together over the last four weeks, but he supposed protocol had to be followed. Besides, it was nice to sit here, with him, even if it was just to answer a few Q &A type questions.  
   
He watched the scratch of Chandler’s pen move across the page a moment before he let his eyes wonder around the room. The more he looked, the more he saw. Not changes, per se, but rather signs that there was something more pressing than a cold case or two going on. They were working on something. And Kent got the distinct impression that it was something they didn’t want to let him in on.  
   
He turned his gaze to the window looking out into the Incident Room and tried not to show his surprise to find it was now empty.  
   
Kent bit at the inside of his cheek, not too hard, but enough to feel the pinch of his teeth against the flesh. He tried not to let his thoughts get the best of him, to dampen his mood, but it was hard. He fingered the elastic around his wrist and turned his gaze back towards Chandler’s bent head.  
   
It was only his first day back, of course. They probably just wanted to acclimatise him before they threw a new case at him. Probably didn’t want him to feel inadequate about it, and so they were hiding it. If it were really that big of a deal they’d bring him in. The sorts of cases they were used to dealing with usually required all hands on deck.  
   
Unless that’s why they’d brought Riley in. It had been long enough now since they’d lost McCormack, and with no actual case to work on, Kent had sort of assumed they’d never replace him. Although, if he really thought about it, it’s not as though he’d been working to his full potential either. Maybe Riley wasn’t to make up their numbers, maybe she’d been brought in to replace _him_.  
   
The thought left a sour taste in his mouth and he swallowed reflexively, trying for a smile as Chandler finished and looked back up.  
   
Why hadn’t he said anything?  
   
“Is Riley staying?” he blurted before Chandler could say anything, and then promptly winced at his own outburst.  
   
Chandler frowned minutely. “That’s the plan. We never replaced McCormack and it seemed like the right time to bring someone in, get them used to working with everyone.”  
   
Kent nodded, pressing his lips together.  
   
“Are you unhappy with this decision?” Chandler asked, carefully.  
   
“No,” he said, quick to reply. “She seems nice enough. Just- why didn’t you say anything?”  
   
“I-,” Chandler hesitated. “I should have,” he agreed. “I just didn’t want you to think the worst. And we weren’t talking about work so I didn’t bring it up.”  
   
“You didn’t think I could handle it?” He asked, chewing at his cheek again.  
   
“It wasn’t like that. After Mansell’s party, Miles came to me and suggested it was time to get someone new in, he put Riley forward and I agreed. She started last week.”  
   
Last week. Kent nodded. Not that long then. Though he hadn’t seen much of Chandler in the last week either, he’d been working later nights, earlier mornings, looking tired and stressed the times he did manage to pull himself away from work to spend time with Kent.  
   
He felt a little guilty now, for taking up so much of Chandler’s time. It should have been obvious that something was going on, that they’d needed the help and- unable to rely on Kent, unsure even as to when he’d return- they’d had to bring someone else in. Maybe they would have done it any way. Maybe it was just his paranoia and self-doubt. Either way, he should have noticed. Should have realised. Some detective he was. So wrapped up in-  
   
No.  
   
He snapped at the band on his wrist, flinching at the immediate sting and then again at the sharp-eyed look Chandler shot him at the gesture.  
   
He looked away, took a breath. He couldn’t think like that. He had to stay positive, stay strong. He did what he’d had to do. He took the time off for himself, to fix himself. He was making progress, enough that now felt like the right time to ease himself back into work, to get his mind reengaged with something other than his own mental state.  
   
“Emerson?” Chandler called, voice wary.  
   
“It’s not a problem, sir,” Kent said, turning back. “I look forward to working with her.”  
   
Chandler’s eyes flicked down to his hands, to where he still twisted his fingers around the band.  
   
The sound of the Incident Room door falling shut suddenly sounded in the quiet of the room and they both looked up to find Miles and Riley heading into the room. Miles gestured towards Chandler and Chandler nodded once before turning back to Kent.  
   
“If you’re sure?” he eventually asked.  
   
“I am,” Kent agreed, hearing the dismissal and pushing himself to his feet. “Is there anything else, sir?”  
   
Chandler seemed to hesitate, his eyes moving to the piles of paperwork and back before he shook his head. “No, that’ll be all. See Riley for the cases we’re focussing on this week.” He stood as well and followed Kent to the door, picking up his coat and scarf as he went.  
   
“I’ll try and see you for lunch,” he promised and Kent offered him a smile, watching as Chandler smiled back before hurrying towards Miles.  
   
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from this morning, but it certainly wasn’t this. He watched as Chandler and Miles left the room together, before picking his caseload up from Riley and settling in at his desk. Aside from the brief welcome back, things were pretty much the same as they’d been before he’d left. Sans the new member to their team, and the fact that something was obviously going on.  
   
He sighed inwardly as he flicked through a manila folder of cases nobody remembered and fewer people cared about, making a couple new notes of reference in the margins: autopsy reports to recall, witness statements missing from the file, that sort of thing.  
   
He spent his morning like that, Riley being replaced by Mansell towards lunch, a text from Chandler apologising and cancelling their own tentative plans, and the afternoon became much of the same as the morning. Chandler and Miles appeared around mid-afternoon looking tired and unsuccessful in whatever endeavour they’d been pursuing.  
   
Though they hadn’t spoken of work in any detail whilst Kent had been off, he had noticed how tired and stressed Chandler had begun to look towards the end of his leave. He’d put it down to little things, and with Chandler always brushing his concern away, lamenting a lack of sleep or not enough caffeine or some other inconsequential thing, it had been easy enough to let himself believe him.  
   
Now, back at work, he could see what he’d been missing. He knew enough about Chandler and how he behaved during an investigation to easily deduce that when he’d said there’d been nothing going on at work, what he really meant was that there was a new case for the team but that he didn’t want Kent involved with it.  
   
That was… fine, when he hadn’t actually been at work. But being forced to trawl through cold case after cold case for the better part of a week whilst Miles and Mansell came and went from Chandler’s office like a pair of revolving doors, hot on the heels of whatever leads they were being fed, it was hard not to feel a lot like a hindrance.  
   
And then there was Riley who was obviously in the know too. And though she seemed to be designated distracter- always there with a funny anecdote or some long-winded story or other Kent was too polite to interrupt even as the rest of his team rushed in and out of the IncidentRoom- it didn’t distract from the fact that she clearly knew what was going on.  
   
It wasn’t subtle at all. And there was a part of him that wanted to show his indignation, his frustration, that wanted to tell them that he wouldn’t be back at work at all if he couldn’t handle whatever the hell it was that was going on.  
   
But he didn’t ask. And no one offered to tell him. And by the time the end of the fourth day drew to a close, Kent felt the curl of his shoulders in more than just a physical way.  
   
He stood from his desk with a wince, stretching out his right leg in a way he hadn’t had to do for a while now, and tried not to feel the hot stares against the back of his neck.  
   
“Everything alright, mate?” Mansell called across the room. He was slinging his coat across his shoulders, ready for home.  
   
Kent offered him a half-smile. “Yeah. Just stretching a bit.” He said, cricking his neck as well.  
   
Mansell nodded, eyes flicking down then away. “You heading now? I can give you a lift if you like?”  
   
“I’m okay, cheers. Going to stay for a bit longer.”  
   
Mansell offered him a laugh. “Glad to see some things never change.”  
   
“Don’t stay too long,” Miles said, stepping out of Chandler’s office and catching the end of their conversation.  
   
Kent nodded his head, watching as Miles stopped off at Riley’s desk for a whispered exchange before they both grabbed their coats and said their goodnights. He met Mansell’s gaze briefly before the other man ducked his head, said his own goodbye, and hurried out the room after them.  
   
Kent sat back down, wincing a little at the jar to his leg. He wished he was confident enough to confront them. To even bring this up with Chandler. He wanted to prove that he was fine, that he was alright to be here and do his job, that could still do his job.  
   
But he wasn’t. And he didn’t.  
   
Because he’d been here before. They all had. With him being in work when everyone else though that he shouldn’t have been. And maybe he felt a little as though this was his penance, that he had to prove himself to them all over again one cold case at a time.  
   
He dug his fingers into the underside of his thigh, gritting his teeth at the tenseness of the muscle, at the feel of thick scarring through the fabric of his trousers, and he seriously contemplated calling it a night. Considered going home, taking his meds, and curling himself away from the world.  
   
But he pushed through. He had to. Had to stay positive and healthy, even on the bad days. Kent scrubbed at his eyes a moment before looking up into Chandler’s office to watch as he pursued the files strewn haphazardly across his desk, the pages spilling out the edges like crumpled secrets stuffed too hastily away.  
   
It was the very definition of disorganisation, and exactly the opposite of everything he’d come to learn about Chandler over the last few years. He frowned to himself, looking back at the files he’d piled neatly upon his own desk, at the file lying open before him all straight lines and edges.  
   
He tapped his pen against the pages before lifting the end to his mouth; teeth sinking into the plastic cap worriedly as he looked up again to find that Chandler was hunched over his desk now, head bowed, his fingers massaging viciously at his temples.  
   
Kent checked his watch to find it was going on eight o’clock and he pushed to his feet, taking a moment to carefully stretch out his leg before making his way towards Chandler’s office.  
   
“Everything alright, sir?” he asked after rapping softly at the open door. He leant against the doorframe, taking the weight off his leg.  
   
“Hmm?” Chandler looked up, smiling tiredly to see him before he frowned and reached for his watch.  
   
“It’s late,” Chandler said, as if he hadn’t realised, looking back up.  
   
“Yes,” Kent agreed, arms folded loosely across his chest. A menthol scent hung in the air and Kent let his eyes drop from Chandler to scan across the mess of his desk.  
   
“You should be at home,” Chandler tried, wincing as he reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose.  
   
“So should you,” Kent countered, feeling a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Chandler shot him an unimpressed look that did nothing to deter Kent as he stepped into the room and moved over towards Chandler’s side.  
   
The small tin of Tiger Balm sat to his side and Kent reached for it, fingers twitching in hesitation.  
   
“May I?” He asked. Chandler eyed him a long moment, gaze flickering from his hand to the tin and then back up to his face, a question in his eyes even as he nodded his permission.  
   
Kent dipped his index finger into the tin, rubbing around the edges to get a good amount of the balm onto his fingertip. He transferred some of the balm to his other index finger before moving to stand behind Chandler.  
   
Chandler said nothing as Kent reached out to press against his temples, massaging his fingers against them. He heard Chandler exhale heavily through his nose and pressed in a little harder, widening the circular motions until he was out of balm and massaging up into Chandler’s hairline, then just above his ears, and then rubbing his fingers lightly through his hair, gradually increasing the pressure as he went.  
   
Chandler’s head began to bow, his shoulders slumping with relief as Kent worked his way across his scalp and then down the back of his neck, finishing off with a gentle swipe across his shoulder blades.  
   
On impulse, he bent forward and pressed a kiss to the back of Chandler’s neck, breathing in the subtle scent of his soap (sandalwood, a hint of cinnamon spice) beneath the almost overpowering smell of menthol and clove oil.  
   
Chandler leant back as Kent pulled away, his head coming to rest against Kent’s stomach as he looked up at him with half-lidded eyes.  
   
“You’re good at that,” he said, blinking slowly, tiredly.  
   
Kent grinned, squeezing his hands at Chandler’s shoulders. “You looked like you needed it.”  
   
“Mmm,” Chandler agreed closing his eyes.  
   
Kent smiled down at him, moving his hands up to run his fingers through Chandler’s hair again, enjoying the weight of his head as it pressed against his belly, the feel of his hair as he ran it through his fingers.  
   
He bent over then, pressing a kiss to Chandler’s forehead. He knew it wasn’t something he should really be doing at work, no matter that it was only the two of them in the Incident Room, but the look of complete and utter bliss on Chandler’s face was hard to resist.  
   
Chandler’s eyes flickered back open meeting Kent’s and there was a look in them that was so open and wanting that Kent wanted to throw all caution to the wind and lean in, seal his mouth over Chandler’s and kiss away every stress and worry he was carrying. They hadn’t been able to see much of each other this week and just seeing him like this made Kent realise how much he’d missed him.  
   
He made himself look away, to curb the urge to lean down once more and slide his mouth over Chandler’s. He swallowed, eyes flickering over Chandler’s desk and then back to his mouth and then-  
   
Kent blinked, looking back over at Chandler’s desk, at the autopsy picture he hadn’t quite managed to push all the way back into its folder, at the mutilated body that all but screamed out knife attack and a watery grave.  
   
He felt himself tense before he could stop himself and Chandler immediately pushed himself upright, hands quick to cover up the picture and anything else he thought Kent shouldn’t see.  
   
Kent grabbed hold of the back of Chandler’s chair, fingers squeezing. He… wasn’t sure how he felt. A little shocked at seeing the image sure, but perhaps more so at the severity of Chandler’s reaction to his own. He didn’t want to think it was because Chandler didn’t think he couldn’t handle it, and yet at the same time that’s exactly what he thought.  
   
He _knew_ they’d been working on something! Assumed they must have thought they were doing the right thing by limiting his exposure to a case like this after everything Kent had been through. And yes, he’d been willing to play along for a few more days whilst he settled back in, whilst they settled back in to having him around but… but he’d been off for _weeks_ , four of them to be exact, and he’d gotten help, he was doing everything in his power to fight this with everything he had in him, he was ready to be back at work, to do his job, and… and it kind of hurt to know that not even Chandler thought he was ready for it.  
   
He bit his lip. That was unfair. He trusted Chandler, and he trusted Chandler’s judgement, and if he thought easing him back into the job with tedious amounts of paperwork was the way to do it, then Kent would try. After everything he’d put him through, put them all through, he could give them this. He could. He _would_.  
   
He offered Chandler a tight smile when he turned to face Kent with unmasked concern. Kent’s hands fell away from the back of the chair as Chandler swivelled it around.  
   
“Are you staying?” Kent asked instead of enquiring about what they both knew he’d just seen.  
   
“Am I-,” Chandler started, thrown. He shook his head: “Are you-?”  
   
“I’m going to head now,” Kent interrupted, deliberately misinterpreting what he knew was going to be a question about how he felt. And he didn’t have an answer to that. Not one he could articulate with any degree of conviction.  
   
“I’ll give you a lift?” Chandler countered, half-rising, but Kent shook his head.  
   
“I know you want to stay,” he said and though Chandler made a face he didn’t protest. “Do you want me to get you anything before I go? Coffee?”  
   
“No, thank you. I’ll make some tea in a bit.” He looked as though he wanted to say more and Kent tried to give him something more than a grimace of a smile.  
   
“I’m okay, Joe,” he said, not wanting Chandler to worry about him instead of his case.  
   
“You’d tell me if you weren’t?” he asked, frowning, his face so open and imploring.  
   
Kent reached out, touching at the lines creasing Chandler’s forehead with his thumb.  
   
“I’d try,” he promised.  
   
 - - -  
   
Despite his better judgement, Kent couldn’t stop thinking about the picture he’d seen on Chandler’s desk the previous evening. He’d slept about as well as he usually did and unplagued by nightmares he’d let his curiosity get the better of him.  
   
He trusted Chandler to look out for him, he truly did, but at the same time a part of him wanted to- _needed_ to- know if he could actually handle seeing something like this again. Because if he _couldn’t_ , he needed to know. They all needed to know. This job was all he had and the prospect of no longer being able to handle himself over the sight of a cadaver… well, it didn’t bear thinking about.  
   
He shivered as he stepped into the Morgue, the lights were on but Llewellyn was nowhere to be seen. Kent looked around, almost guiltily, knowing he shouldn’t be doing this even as he pressed further into the room. Everything was sterile and pristine, the scent of bleach strong and stomach churning only for the knowledge of what other scents it was masking.  
   
There was only one body laid out, and the sight of the carved-up face was enough to let Kent know it was the same as the one he’d seen in the picture. The entire left side of the face had been torn open from the corner of the mouth, the cut stretching up into the eye socket. The skin itself hung open in a ragged mess, giving Kent a view through to the muscle and bone beneath.  
   
Kent swallowed heavily, closing his eyes momentarily against the image before he forced his gaze back onto the mutilated face. Forced himself to look at it. It was water-bleached but well enough preserved that Kent could tell he’d been young, barely a man, when he’d had his face ripped open and his body tossed aside to rot.  
   
He sucked in a sharp breath, reaching out cautiously to take a tight grip of the linen sheet covering him. With his teeth clenched, Kent gingerly drew the sheet down a little, just until the prongs of Llewellyn’s Y-shaped incision met at the sternum. The chest area was littered with a series of shallow slashes, with some deeper stab wounds digging deeply through the flesh.  
   
He’d probably died during his attack. Before they’d dumped his body in the river. He could see why they wanted to keep this case to themselves, how eerily similar it could be to Dan Street’s case except that it wasn’t. At least Dan’s death had been a choice.  
   
This. This had been an attack. And not even one they’d let him walk away from. He hadn’t been given a choice, a chance. He’d just had his face disfigured and his body mutilated, and then he’d been thrown away. As if he meant nothing.  
   
Kent shuddered, dropping the sheet.  
   
He could hear a shallow gasping sound and was peripherally surprised to find the noise was coming from himself. He stumbled back, a violent shiver wracking his body and he closed his eyes, desperately sucking in breath after breath as he clenched his hands into fists, blunt fingernails digging into nothing and he could feel the sort of hot-cold sweat that came as a prelude to a panic attack begin to wash over him.  
   
“No,” he breathed, clenching his teeth, fingers scrabbling desperately for the elastic he wore around his wrist. He pulled it taunt, let it loose with a _snap!_ and a hiss, the sting of it hitting against the thin skin of his wrist enough of a shock to stall the bubbling panic.  
   
He scrabbled again for it, snapping it hard, harder, and harder still, until his wrist was red-raw but his breathing was less gasping for breath and more gasping at the repeated sting of pain until even that lessened and he was left numb and breathless.  
   
He stood there another moment, hand cupped over his wrist, fingers squeezing against the throb and waiting desperately for his heart and his breathing to return to a normal level.  
   
The sound of the door sliding open made him tense, but the sound of Chandler’s voice calling his name had him flinching away, dropping his eyes to the floor as the guilt and the shame washed over him.  
   
“Llewellyn told me you were in here,” Chandler said, softly, carefully approaching him from the side. “Why are you down here, Emerson?”  
   
Kent swallowed bile, briefly flicking his eyes over towards Chandler. He tried for a smile but it slipped too-easily from his face. Chandler was watching him, his expression almost unnaturally controlled- no frown, no smile, no unconscious twist to his mouth that had always worked as a tell to how he was feeling.  
   
“I’m sorry,” he said, choking on the words. “I had to-,” he sucked in a breath, then another. His heart was still throbbing against his ribcage. “I had to know if I could-,” he shook his head, hunching in on himself and Chandler stepped in further still.  
   
“If you could handle it?” Chandler finished and Kent began to nod before shaking his head.  
   
“I was wrong.” He admitted, voice hitching. “I’m so sorry. I should have known- I’m not ready. What if I’m never ready? What if I can never deal with this again?”  
   
He tried to snap the elastic once more, but not even the _snap!_ of it served to help this time.  
   
He startled at the feel of cool fingers touching first at his hand, then his wrist; the touch a relief against the burn of his skin. He heard Chandler hiss and he looked down to see the redness, the almost rawness, the way the skin looked as though it were beginning to welt up.  
   
Chandler cursed and Kent was maybe more startled by that than by what he’d managed to do to himself. He let himself be led by hand towards the sinks, let Chandler guide his wrist under the cold flow of tap water and held it there, listening to the splatter of the water in an otherwise heavy silence.  
   
“Why didn’t you come to me?” Chandler asked him, fingers tightening against his own.  
   
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked instead, eyes still downcast. “You didn’t think I was ready, did you?” he smiled bitterly. “You were right, I guess. Not much use to you, am I?”  
   
“Damnit, Emerson,” Chandler reached out, tipping his face up. “I’m sorry I kept this from you, but it wasn’t because I didn’t think you were ready. I didn’t want to push you into this on your first week back. I thought it would be too much after what happened-,”  
   
“I said you were right!” He snapped, pulling his face back, tugging his hand from Chandler’s hold. He grabbed almost angrily for the paper towels, slapping them against his skin.  
   
He heard Chandler inhale deeply. “I know it feels as if you’ve failed something here but you haven’t. This isn’t a test, Emerson. You’re allowed to react to this.”  
   
“What use am I as a detective if I can’t even look at a body?” he spat, clinging to the anger so that he didn’t lose himself in the despair. Chandler might not see this as a test, but it was. And it was the most important one of all so far as his career was concerned.  
   
“It’s not about you being able to look at a body,” Chandler pressed on, his tone of voice bordering on frustration. “It was about you looking at these particular bodies. After your last case we didn’t want to throw you in at the deep end and expect you to not react like this. I was the same when I saw my first body- do you remember? And Miles too- after his stabbing-,”  
   
“And me after Dan Street, but this isn’t Dan!” he hissed. “I’ve been standing here reciting all the ways that this is not like Dan Street’s case, how it doesn’t have anything to do with him or me or anything. And I still can’t-,” his eyes moved past Chandler, to the body laid out upon the table. “I can’t-” his voice hitched.  
   
“You’ll get there, Emerson.” Chandler said, voice so serious, so confident Kent could have cried. Chandler reached for him once more, hands holding tightly to his upper arms. “We’ll get there.”  
   
“I want to see the rest of them.” He said then, feeling the twitch of Chandler’s fingers.  
   
“What? Kent-,” and it was back to that now, was it? Kent straightened, pulling himself away from Chandler’s reach.  
   
“I want to see the rest of them. The bodies. You said there were more.” He stood tall, defiant, chin up and stubborn, but inside he was shaking. Scared.  
   
“I’m not playing the victim anymore.” He said when Chandler didn’t immediately move. It wasn’t quite a question but he felt as though he were asking one as Chandler stared at him, serious and considering.  
   
The minutes dragged on before Chandler spoke. “A compromise,” he began and Kent opened his mouth to immediately protest.  
   
Chandler held up a hand, stalling him.  
   
“You’re on the case,” he said. “I’ll let you read the files, get yourself up to date on everything we have so far. You can help me put the boards back together, see the photographs. And if, at the end of today, you think you’re up to it- and don’t just say you are to prove something because you won’t be helping either of us-,” Kent winced, averting his gaze, “-I’ll bring you back here and walk you through them.”  
   
“How- how many are there?” he asked, swallowing against the click of his throat.  
   
“Four,” Chandler answered. “Three male and one female.”  
   
Kent swallowed again, eyes creeping back towards the body on the table, unable to stop himself. “And what’s his name?”  
   
Chandler looked over at the body, his mouth thinning. “His name is Daniel-,” Kent felt his heart stop.  
   
“Daniel Smith” Chandler finished.  
   
And Kent pressed his fingers against his eyes, giving himself a moment before he looked up again, blinking away the monochrome spots dancing before them as he made his way back over towards the body. Gingerly, he reached out, fingers pinching at the sheet before drawing it back up and over the body, just the way he found him.  
   
“You’re not him,” he whispered. “You’re not Dan Street. And neither am I.”  
   
 - - -  
   
He heard the others arrive before he saw them, heard their morning chatter abruptly cut off as they stepped into the Incident Room to find him putting together the boards; case files spread along the desks beside him as he read up on each of the four victims.  
   
“What-,” Mansell bit off, gingerly edging towards him. “What’re you doing, Kent?”  
   
Kent offered him a lopsided sort of smile. “You guys aren’t exactly subtle,” he said, looking down at the folder he held before turning his gaze back to the board and scrawling the victim’s name ( _Victoria Parker_ ) and date of birth ( _11/07/87_ ) beneath the picture of a smiling, red haired, brown-eyed girl.  
   
Beside that picture was the one they’d taken of her right before the autopsy: she too had been cut from the mouth, each side, but this time the cuts were more jagged, as if the blade had been sawed back and forth from the corners of her mouth up towards her ears.  
   
He heard the crumpling of paper and forced himself to loosen the vice like grip he had of the folder. He could feel Mansell’s anxious stare against the side of his head, could almost taste his indecision over what to do.  
   
“Where did you get these, Emerson?” Riley asked then, her voice a little more subdued than he was used to hearing.  
   
“From the pile on Chandler’s desk.” Kent said offhandedly before he frowned. “Whose idea was it to start looking into a historical precedent for these murders?”  
   
He looked up to find Mansell and Riley sharing a worried look. “Does… does he know you have these?”  
   
“Does who know you have what?” Miles asked stepping into the room then. Like Mansell and Riley he too stopped, thrown at the sight of the boards and no doubt at the fact Kent was the one putting them together.  
   
“What the hell is going on here?” he snapped, looking between the three of them.  
   
“It wasn’t us, Skip!” Mansell defended. “We just got here.”  
   
Riley nodded her agreement, her bottom lip caught nervously between her teeth.  
   
“Where did you get them?” Miles demanded, staring at him and Kent frowned, a little bemused, a little intimidated by their reaction.  
   
“From Chandler-,” he began but Miles stormed over to him and snatched the file from his hands.  
   
“You had no right going in there and taking these!” he snapped and Kent straightened defensively.  
   
“I didn’t take anything I wasn’t given permission to!” he answered, voice rising, cheeks flushing at the insinuation.  
   
“You expect me to believe that?” Miles shot back. “What, you just walked in this morning and he thought you were ready for this? You’ve barely been back a week yet.”  
   
Kent could feel his heartbeat accelerating, could feel the way his chest tightened at Miles’ words. _Did he really think he was ready for this?_ He grit his teeth together.  
   
“How are we ever supposed to know if I’m ready for this if you keep hiding it away from me?” he threw out, clawing his fingers into his arms. “You think I didn’t know you were working on something from day one? Think I’d just play pretend that I couldn’t see you all lying to me?”  
   
“We were trying to protect you!” Miles barked.  
   
“You were trying to protect yourselves!” he snapped. Miles looked as taken aback by his words and Kent felt for saying them. He’d meant to say he didn’t need protecting, that he could look after himself, but somehow the words got lost and tangled on the way out. He bit at the insides of his mouth, swallowed back the coppery taste of bile.  
   
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Miles asked and Kent swallowed again, half looking away. He wanted to answer, wanted to tell Miles that they’d all been too worried about what _could_ happen to him that they’d all completely ignored what was happening to him. How he’d been made to feel unwanted, like some kind of leper, a burden to be babysat every time a fresh lead was called in.  
   
He wanted to tell them that if he wasn’t ready to be back, he wouldn’t be. That if Chandler hadn’t though the was ready, he wouldn’t have signed him off. That if he couldn’t handle it, he’d let them know.  
   
But he didn’t. Because, again, they’d been here before. And maybe they were right, maybe he wasn’t ready to be back. Maybe he wasn’t ready for these types of cases. If he let himself, he could still feel the throb of his wrist, a pulsating reminder of what had happened to him down in the autopsy room.  
   
“Morning,” Chandler’s voice echoed around the room as he stepped inside, a tray holding two coffees in one hand. He took a moment to survey the tense standoff before he moved towards them, laying the tray on the desk beside Kent. “Is there a problem?”  
   
Kent shook his head even as Miles opened his mouth to snap out that “Yes, there bloody well is a problem!”  
   
And things sort of went downhill from there with Chandler pulling Miles into his office for another half-heard shouting match, but not before Chandler plucked the file Miles had snatched from him and deliberately given it back to Kent.  
   
Riley moved in beside him once the door shut behind them. “Where have you got to?” She asked, shucking her coat with a sympathetic smile. “Lets see if we can’t get you caught up before they’re done in there, yeah?”  
   
Kent offered her a shaky smile. “Just started on victim number two,” he nodded towards the info he’d just been writing on the board and they went from there. He got the highlights of all four victims, the timeline, the theories, and a brief history on knife attacks and the infamous Chelsea smile from the pair of them over the course of the day.  
   
Sometime between victims two and three, Miles and Chandler came out of his office, neither of them looked particularly happy but as nothing was said again on the matter of him being included on the case Kent decided to bite his tongue and just take dictation for the rest of the day, only chiming in every now and then to clarify on certain details.  
   
He was a little more quiet and subdued than he had been at the beginning of the week but no one called him on it. He tried not to withdraw too much, tried to keep offering reassuring smiles, tried to stay included even in the face of Miles’ disproval, but the longer the day went on the harder it became to pretend that this wasn’t affecting him.  
   
He didn’t feel panicked in the same way he had at seeing Daniel Smith’s body, but there was a bubbling discontent sitting just below his skin, leaving him feeling on edge, too tense, too _aware_.  
   
By the time the end of the working day came around, with Chandler pulling him aside and asking him if he thought he was up for returning to the morgue, Kent actually had to take a minute to think about it.  
   
He glanced back at their murder boards, at the four photos, their victims all cut up with varying degrees of severity and he’d shaken his head. Seeing those photos make him feel shaken and nauseous enough as it was and he couldn’t imagine what his reaction to seeing their lifeless bodies up close would be.  
   
Probably something quite similar to the way he’d reacted at seeing Dan’s had been.  
   
No.  
   
Not Dan. Daniel. _Daniel Smith_.  
   
He shook his head again, clenching his eyes shut and knuckling into them.  
  
“Not tonight,” he breathed out.  
   
Chandler touched at his shoulder, squeezing. “Let’s go home.” He said and Kent blinked at him, touched at more than just the fact Chandler wasn’t pushing him or making him feel inadequate for not being up to it. Because when Chandler said home, what he meant was for the both of them to go back to his apartment, and it made Kent feel warm and wanted to know that Chandler felt that way about him being there.  
   
They managed dinner that night, some idle talking, neither of them bringing up work or the case or what had happened to Kent that very morning, and Kent was grateful. He knew he’d have to articulate how he was feeling at some point, knew he’d have to properly process and accept everything he’d seen today, but tonight was not the time to do it.  
   
All he wanted was a chance to forget about it. To dance this dance of domesticity with Chandler and pretend that he was as alright as he claimed to be. Denial was always easier when he let himself get lost in Chandler’s arms, curled up in Chandler’s bed.  
   
He didn’t even think about it when Chandler turned off the bedside lamp and reached for him, just let himself be manoeuvred onto his side. It wasn’t until Chandler shifted up behind him that he reacted, his entire body flinching as he twisted away, heart thundering, eyes wide with panic.  
   
“Hey, hey you’re okay,” Chandler pulled away entirely, pushing up onto his elbow to give Kent some space.  
   
Kent sat up, covering his face with his hands as he curled his legs up to his chest, more embarrassed than afraid. He hadn’t forgotten where he was, not entirely, nor whom he was with, but even that wasn’t enough to stave his instinctual reaction to someone being too close to that part of him.  
   
“Sorry,” he muttered after a while, heart palpitating wildly. “My fault, I should have realised…”  
   
“No ones fault,” Chandler reassured him and Kent dropped his hands, looking over at him.  
   
“I didn’t mean to freak out,” he said, pressing his lips tightly together.  
   
“It’s okay,” Chandler said, reaching over to lift the covers a little. Kent slid slowly back down into bed, turning to face Chandler this time. He sighed into the soft kiss Chandler pressed to his lips, shivering as he drew him in once more until Kent’s head rested on his chest and Chandler’s arms were wrapped around him, his hands well above waist level.  
   
Kent turned his head a little, pressing his mouth to Chandler’s chest. “Thank you for understanding,” he whispered.  
   
Chandler tightened his grip fractionally. “What is it you’re afraid of?” he whispered back, beginning to card a hand through Kent’s hair.  
   
Kent tried to suppress a shiver at his words, feeling his eyes prickle a little.  
   
“Everything.”  
   
 - - -  
 


	5. thirty-seven kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chandler sets out to prove to Kent that his scars aren't as ugly as he thinks they are, in a way that's surprising to them both.

He went from asleep to awake almost instantly, his eyes wide and staring into the half-dark of Chandler’s bedroom. His heart was hammering against his ribcage, his body held poised, tensed with trepidation and the almost overwhelming expectation of an imminent attack.

Yet, as deeply as he squinted into the shadowy corners of the room, nothing happened, and slowly Kent allowed himself to suck in a shaky gasp of air. It took a moment to realise exactly what had woken him, what had wrenched him from a dreamless sleep; it was the same thing that had woken him a time or two before in the scant few weeks he’d been sharing Chandler’s bed: the feeling of a solid warmth at his back.

Kent felt himself tensing all over again; fingers digging like claws into the mattress as he squeezed his eyes closed and held his breath in an attempt to stave off the familiar panic he could feel bubbling away inside him, as he realised that in sleep he’d allowed Chandler to curl himself around Kent, to press himself so wholly alongside him that Kent knew- had Chandler been awake- he’d have been able to feel the thick lines of scarring that ran from his buttocks to his upper thighs.

His chest began to ache. Kent opened his eyes and, forcing himself to swallow back the panic, took a shuddering breath, and then another. Forced himself to ignore the way his skin prickled, to pretend that being touched- _there_ \- wasn’t as terrifyingly intimate as he knew it was.

Cautiously he arched his body away from Chandler’s, moving achingly slow in an endeavour not to wake him. It had been bad enough the first time this had happened. And the second. Even the third, he’d admit. Too caught up in freaking out he’d all but sprung from the bed with nary a thought in mind save flight, and promptly locked himself in the bathroom as he’d flashed back to his initial attack; the feeling of Chandler pressed against him scarily reminiscent of the way the Kray’s had touched him, before they’d sliced him open for their pleasure.

He kept his eyes open now as he manoeuvred his way onto his back, not daring to relax so much as a muscle until he was on his back and the only thing pressing against him was the firmness of the mattress beneath them. The arm Chandler had had slung over his waist, now rested on his stomach and Kent found himself clutching at it, using the touch to anchor himself, to tell himself it was okay-  _he was okay_ \- and that nothing had happened.  

He shivered, staring up at the ceiling and wondered not for the first time if he’d ever get better. If the memories, the imaginings, the fear, would ever go away. Would ever be just a thing that had happened that no longer had any bearing on his day to day life.

Kent barely realised he’d been squeezing at Chandler’s hand in his turmoil until suddenly Chandler’s hand squeezed back. He flinched bodily, muscles tight as he turned his head to find Chandler watching him, his eyes half-hooded with sleep, his brow creased in a frown.

How long had he been awake? 

“Sorry,” he breathed out, offering Chandler a shaky smile.

“Shouldn’t I be the one apologising?” Chandler asked, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Kent shook his head, turning against the pillow to look back up at the ceiling, throat suddenly tight. Chandler squeezed at his hand again.

“At least I stayed in bed this time,” he offered, his attempt to lighten the mood lost as he choked on the words. He was slightly horrified to find his eyes prickling.

Chandler pushed himself up to better look at him, but Kent turned his face further away, blinking his eyes fervently. 

“Emerson,” his name came as a sigh. Kent didn’t move, or answer, and the silence between them grew. It might even have grown uncomfortable if it weren’t for the way Chandler kept a tight hold on his hand, his thumb ghosting across his knuckles, waiting him out.

Kent let himself focus on the touch for a little while. Let himself wonder why in sleep he seemed to trust Chandler to touch him where he could barely stand to touch himself. Even now, with his back pressed against the bed, his stomach still churned with latent panic, his body still poised for flight, and the very thought of closing his eyes sent a sliver of terror through him, as if he knew by sleeping the Krays would choose to visit him in his dreams tonight.

Eventually Kent turned his head to look at Chandler, not quite meeting his eyes, but not exactly avoiding them either. He felt as though he should say something but he wasn’t sure what. Another apology seemed pointless, he’d spilled so many of them recently he was sure Chandler was tired of hearing them.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he eventually settled with.

“I don’t mind,” Chandler returned and Kent frowned; his fear giving way to an anger that was just as irrational. He swallowed thickly, lifting his free hand to press against his eyes; fingers digging in just a little too deeply.

He wasn’t angry with Chandler. He was angry with himself. With his inability to function like a normal person. To be this strong and stubborn man Chandler swore he still was. Somewhere beneath all the scars at least.

“Don’t,” Chandler said a second before he was tugging their hands free and lifting his own to pull Kent’s fingers away from his eyes. He jerked back, blinking away the spots obstructing his vision to glare at Chandler.

“Emerson,” this time his name sounded as a warning. He turned his head again, looking away and he heard Chandler sigh. “I’m not going to make you talk if you don’t want to, but I’m also not going to let you punish yourself for something you can’t control.”

That irritable prickling started at his eyes again.

“Easy as that?” he asked, swallowing the bitterness he could feel coating his words. He moved to wipe somewhat discreetly at his eyes but Chandler caught his hand again and Kent- unthinking- turned to glare at him, realising too late that Chandler would see just how undone he felt.

It wouldn’t be anything new, but Kent felt as though he should be in a place where he could control his emotions by now. It had been  _months_ since the attack. Mere weeks since his sabbatical. He’d been making progress: real, tangible, more goods days than bad, progress! But where was the proof of that now? Where was the positivity, the belief that he was (getting) better, the verification that after all his suffering, he was finally at the end of it!

“Oh, Emerson,” Chandler whispered, cupping at his face. Kent blinked, trying to force away the blur of tears without letting them fall. Chandler leant in, pressing a kiss to his forehead in a gesture he’d come to associate as one of comfort and safety, and he found himself rolling into Chandler, curling himself against his chest and pressing his face against the crook of his neck.

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathed, the words a hot whisper into Chandler’s skin. He felt the arm Chandler had wrapped around his waist tighten.

“You deserve anything-  _everything_ \- you want.” Chandler returned, ardently.

“I  _want_ to get better,” he pleaded. “I want to stop freaking out over every stupid little thing. I want you-, he broke off. Chandler’s skin was damp where he had his face pressed against it.

“You want me, to what?” Chandler prompted, squeezing again at his waist. Kent shook his head.

Chandler pulled back a little. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“You said you wouldn’t make me talk.” Kent returned, looking imploringly up at him.

Chandler huffed, looking torn between worry and frustration. Kent bit at the inside of his mouth, heart aching at the knowledge that he’d put that look on Chandler’s face.

“Sometimes I don’t know how to put what I feel into words,” Kent sighed, dropping his gaze. He let his fingers skim across Chandler’s collarbone, peripherally pleased that Chandler seldom wore a shirt to bed.

“Sometimes I just need to sort things out myself.” He stilled his fingers and looked up again, meeting Chandler’s eyes. “Sometimes you can’t help me.”

“Sometimes I wish you’d let me try.” Chandler whispered back. Kent reached up to touch at his face then, frowning, and drew Chandler into a chaste kiss.

“You’ve helped me so much already.” He said, pulling back. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

He leant in again before Chandler could speak, ghosting his mouth across Chandler’s own and pressing a light kiss to the side of his mouth.

“Don’t be mad,” he breathed and Chandler seemed to deflate.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said, touching their foreheads together, and Kent smiled as honestly as he could, praying that the room was still dark enough despite Chandler’s open curtains to hide that it didn’t quite reach his own eyes.

Chandler’s deepening frown said otherwise but he didn’t call Kent out on it- something they could both be grateful for. Whilst most of their heart-to-hearts seemed to be held in the ‘middle of the night’, so to speak, both of their emotions were usually running too high to leave Kent anything other than wrung out and frustrated, as if he’d fly apart at the seems at any given moment.

That and he didn’t want to fight with Chandler. Not ever, but especially not here, in bed, where Kent felt the sort of safe he hadn’t felt since before his attack. He knew that in this room, in Chandler’s bed, he could sleep safe in the knowledge that Chandler was beside him, and that nothing would hurt him here.

Nothing except his own subconscious at least.

But even then, even when he woke up, fear-drenched and shaking, panic riding him like a puppet, he could always count on Chandler to talk him down, to hold him close and tight and tell him that everything would be okay. That he had him. That he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I don’t want to fight, Joe,” Kent whispered, touching at Chandler’s face, brushing at the hair that fell forward into his eyes.

Chandler’s answering smile was a little tremulous but still more genuine than Kent’s attempt had been. “I know. I don’t want to fight either.”

Kent nodded, once. Lips pursing. “I am sorry.”

“I know you are,” Chandler leant in and offered him a chaste kiss of his own. “Let’s just try to get some more sleep?”

Kent’s heart picked up a staccato beat at the very thought but he still nodded his agreement, still let Chandler draw him close and cocoon him in the safety of his arms, still closed his eyes and pressed his face against the crook of Chandler’s neck and breathed deeply- in through the nose, out through the mouth. And prayed they could spend the rest of the night unplagued by anything his mind could come up with.

He closed his eyes and bit his tongue, trying to ignore the immediate image of a knife slicing down towards him that sprung up behind his eyelids.

“Hey,” Chandler whispered against his temple, arms tightening. “Emerson you’re shaking.”

“‘M okay,” he denied, ignorant of the faint tremors running through his body.

“No, you’re not,” Chandler tried to pull away, stopped only when Kent tensed his entire body, hands scrabbling at his shoulders. “Jesus, Em- what’s wrong?”

Kent shook his head. “Sorry,” he murmured, mouthing the words against Chandler’s throat. “It’s a bit fresh in my mind,” he offered, hesitantly, but didn’t elaborate.

He could feel the way Chandler bristled, bolstering himself up for what Kent expected to be another offer to talk about it.

“Is there anything I can do?” He asked instead. Kent could have kissed him.

In fact… he let himself pull away just far enough to tilt his head up towards Chandler, who immediately angled his head down towards his own. Their mouths met mutually; tentative at first, both of them a little unsure if this was the sort of thing either of them should be doing right now. But Kent was nothing if not a pro at the whole denial thing, and Chandler, well he knew him well enough by now to pick his battles.

Their kisses became a little surer then, a little harder; mouths moving almost sloppily, desperately against each others. And Kent let his mind go blissfully, thankfully blank, filled only with the taste and touch of Chandler. He opened his mouth, soft moans spilling from his lips as Chandler immediately licked his way inside of him, tangling their tongues wetly.

Kent curled his hand around the back of Chandler’s neck, urging him to follow as he rolled onto his back. Their mouths broke contact only long enough for Chandler to lever himself up beside him, to trail a possessive hand down his chest; fingers creeping under his rucked up t-shirt to curl around his ribcage.

Kent gasped, shivering for a whole new reason at the look on Chandler’s face, at the way his fingers sent goosebumps rising up along his skin. He tugged at Chandler’s neck, a whine caught low in his throat as Chandler resisted only momentarily before ducking his head to slide their lips together again.

He moaned into Chandler’s mouth, greedy for more, greedy for the hot drag of their lips, the wet slide of their tongues, the way Chandler’s hand lay against his skin like a brand, each skim of his fingers as they moved from rib to waist to hip sending fissions of want through his body, making him squirm and his muscles clench.

Though Chandler’s touch remained above the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, it was still lower than they’d ever gone before and Kent found himself sucking in his stomach, his muscles quivering, as Chandler’s thumb stroked over the prominent jut of his hipbone.

“Should I-,” Chandler broke away at Kent’s reaction, sliding his hand back up towards his waist.

Kent moved to grab at Chandler’s hand, pushing it- achingly slow- back down towards his hip, spreading his fingers between Chandler’s till they brushed over the edge of his pyjamas.

“Emerson,” he breathed, pupils blown wide. “You don’t have to-,”

“Kiss me,” Kent urged, ignoring his words.

“Em-,” Chandler started, startling when Kent surged up to claim his mouth again, their joined hands pressed firmly to his body, refusing to let up until Chandler- getting the hint- relaxed against him and resumed the steady stroking of his thumb against Kent’s skin.

“Is this okay?” he breathed.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Kent gasped against the side of his mouth, dragging his teeth along the length of his jaw, smiling breathlessly. His heart was thumping against his chest, but this time it was in a good way, because he wasn’t freaking out about it. He knew where he was and exactly who he was with and- though he knew he probably wasn’t ready for anything else, for Chandler to see that part of him- this still felt like a step in the right direction.

He left open mouthed kisses against Chandler’s jaw, his throat, his mouth when Chandler turned back, groaning against his lips before pulling away to press their foreheads together, his eyes meeting Kent’s before looking further down the length of him. He tightened his hand, thumb caressing at the sensitive skin around his hip and he smiled; softly, almost privately, and Kent found himself all but grinning back, arching his body a little to press himself more fully against Chandler’s grip.

Chandler caressed him again, his hand stilling momentarily before sliding from his hip and across his abdomen. Kent sucked in a breath, and his stomach, as Chandler’s hand settled a smidgen lower, right upon his waistband. He was watching Kent carefully and Kent felt his breath catch against his throat, hesitant, wanton, swallowing against his uncertainties as he met Chandler’s gaze.

He didn’t- he couldn’t- Kent opened his mouth to apologise only for his words to get lost as Chandler leant in, his kiss softer than the last, slower, his hand sliding away from Kent’s stomach and settling somewhere closer to his waist.

Kent felt himself loosen where he hadn’t known he’d tensed, and raked his fingers through Chandler’s hair, mouth parting easily beneath his in a breathless thanks. The pace of their kisses changed then, becoming unhurried and leisurely where before they’d been more than a little desperate.

They traded slow, languid kisses for a while longer, until the thrum of passion eased and they were left soft and pliant in one another’s arms.

Sleep came easy then; without fear or trepidation, cocooned as he was in Chandler’s protective embrace.

 - - -

The rain was heavier than it had been for a while. At least, that’s what Kent thought, as they pulled into the station’s parking lot. It had started as a heavy shower of hailstones, thick chunks of white ice thundering down on the roof of Chandler’s car almost out of the blue, startling them both. By the time they’d reached the station, the hail had stopped but the rain quickly took its place, the drops just as thick and heavy and bouncing up off the road.

“We’ve got time,” Chandler said, reaching over to take Kent’s hand, stalling him as he reached for the door.

“I don’t think it’s going to ease up anytime soon,” he replied doubtfully, squinting out the window and just about making out the car parked one space down.

Chandler was smiling at him when he turned back. “What?”

“Come here,” Chandler tugged on his hand, urging Kent in closer.

Kent felt his own lips twitching upwards as Chandler leant in to kiss him; little pecks against his mouth that Chandler refused to deepen despite Kent’s urging.

Kent sighed happily into Chandler’s next kiss, a whimper of sound catching in his throat as his bottom lip was caught between Chandler’s own and sucked lightly into his mouth.

They hadn’t spoken much this morning as they’d stumbled, bleary-eyed out of bed, but they hadn’t needed to. Chandler kept to his word about not making Kent talk, and Kent- far from wallowing in his own despair- found himself unable to think of anything else save the touches they’d shared that night instead.

They’d been full of bashful smiles and soft touches, finding any excuse to step in close and touch and kiss. It was almost a shame when Chandler had looked at his watch and they’d had to leave to get to work.

He’d have thought that the second they’d gotten into the car, Chandler would have reverted back to the in-charge persona he used at work, but had been pleasantly surprised instead by the way he continued to reach out and touch at his arm, his hand, offering him smiles when he could afford to look away from the road.

The last thing Kent had ever expected was to end up making out in Chandler’s car. It made for a strange kind of intimacy; the sound of their breathing, their mouths meeting, the loud sort of quiet of being cosseted in the car with the rain pounding down around them.

Kent was seconds away from grabbing Chandler by his collar in an effort to deepen their kisses when a sudden rapping at the driver’s side window had them jumping apart.

Though the figure standing at Chandler’s door was distorted by the water running down the window, Kent could hazard a guess as to whom it was before Chandler had finished rolling down his window.

He manoeuvred a large golf umbrella over the exposed window, peering into the car to greet Chandler only to blink in surprise at finding Kent there too. Though he didn’t say anything, Kent saw his eyes lingering on their faces and touched self-consciously at his presumably reddened mouth (if Chandler’s was anything to go by).

“I’ve only got room for one,” Miles said, jiggling the umbrella and sending a cascade of raindrops sailing into the car. Chandler flinched away, brushing at the sleeve of his jacket with a frown.

“I don’t mind the rain,” Kent offered, and- leaving neither of them with an opportunity to protest- promptly opened his door and stepped out into the deluge.

It really was as heavy as it looked. By the time he reached the alcove between buildings he was drenched through and shivering with cold, only the area covered by his jacket seemed to have survived the thirty-something seconds he’d spent dashing through it towards shelter. He shook his hair out, running his fingers through the limp strands and brushing them away from his face.

He hesitated a moment then, wondering if he should wait for Chandler and Miles, or whether he should head into the building without them.

Things were better between Miles and himself now, but not enough that he wanted to inspire another chat by seeming to be too friendly with Chandler at work. That Miles knew there was something between them at all made things awkward enough.

The decision to move was taken out of his hands however when Chandler and Miles came running up to the alcove not long behind him.

“Bloody weather,” Miles muttered, shaking out his umbrella. He turned away from them, ignoring the smile Chandler gave Kent.

“You look like a downed rat,” Chandler laughed, reaching out with his scarf to wipe at the back of Kent’s neck, where the water still in his hair was running down.

Kent felt his heart lurch a little at the gesture, his cheeks flushing lightly at the public display. He ducked his head, biting at the insides of his cheek to keep from smiling too widely as he followed them into the station.

Chandler’s hand still on the back of his neck.

 - - - 

Llewellyn, having compared her notes on each victim, had been able to confirm that whilst all four cases were eerily similar in terms of facial disfiguration, they had not infact been inflicted by the same person.

The first victim, Jordan Mustapha had uneven, repetitive cuts to both sides of his mouth, but the cuts were only a few inches wide on each side as if his attacker hadn’t been confident enough in his task. It was hard to tell if Mustapha had been trying to fight back or if his attacker had become frustrated with his own hesitation, but the cause of death was noted as being a stab wound to the side of the neck.

Whilst the third victim, Jahmal Hayes, could be considered an escalation to the first murder (surer, less uneven cuts to both sides of the mouth and the cause of death also listed as a stab wound to the neck), the other two victims could not.

Victoria Parker had been the second, her mouth had been sawed open on both sides up towards the ears, the sawing motion wielded by her attacker suggested a lack of strength but not of conviction. Where the other attacker(s) had lacked the conviction but not the strength. Her cause of death was also due to drowning, she had not otherwise been stabbed.

The last of them, Daniel Smith, showed a remarkably different motive with the left side of his face having been ripped open towards the eye and the rest of his body having been severely mutilated.

It was hard to confirm, especially considering the length of time the body had been in the water, but Llewellyn thought that the stabbings to Mr Smith’s chest had been done premortem- the mix of light cuts and deep stabbings suggesting an escalation, a growing confidence, before the facial mutilation had taken place postmortem.

All in all, as her notes suggested, each murder had been committed by a different person with the exception of victims one and three which may or may not have been committed by the same one.

Unfortunately, due to the time each victim had spent in the water, DNA evidence was sadly lacking.

Kent flicked through the file on Daniel Smith once more. Oddly enough, despite his reaction to seeing the body and hearing the name, Smith’s file was still the only one Kent could look at without feeling like the bottom of his stomach was about to fall out.

He still avoided looking at the pictures however, finally able to accept that he may never be immune to seeing another knife victim again (especially in the flesh). He still hadn’t asked Chandler to look at the previous three bodies. Their pictures had been enough for him. And really, what could he hope to discover by looking at them that Llewellyn was likely to have missed?

Kent sighed. Closing the file again. They’d found the initial bodies a week apart from each other, with Smith’s being the one found in the week before he’d returned back to work. Kent had been back at work for almost three weeks now and they hadn’t gotten much further in regards to solving this one.

He knew they’d all secretly been hoping that he’d serve as a fresh pair of eyes, that he’d maybe see something they’d all missed, but aside from suggesting the murders may have been gang related (something it turned out Miles had already considered, and was still considering), he hadn’t been able to contribute much more.

Mansell was convinced they were dealing with another serial killer, based on the fact they’d found the bodies spaced a week apart and the similarity to the attacks. But when no more bodies were reported in the following weeks after Kent’s return, that suggestion had been put to the bottom of the pile.

Kent was reviewing Smith’s file again due to an interview he was supposed to be sitting in on with Riley later that afternoon- nothing too exciting, just some routine questions for the ex who’d just returned from holiday- when the call came in.

Two more bodies had been found.

It was hard to reconcile Mansell’s sudden smugness with the broiling anticipation he could feel curdling his stomach, and kept his head down as Chandler briefed them on the two separate locations.

“I don’t want to postpone the interview with Daniel Smith’s ex-girlfriend this afternoon, Riley you were meant to be conducting this one weren’t you?” Chandler asked.

“I can be back in time for the interview,” she started but Miles shook his head.

“We’ll be getting into lunchtime traffic soon, if we leave now we’ll beat the rush to the first spot but getting to the second one will be tricky enough, never mind getting back to the station.”

There was a split second of silence following Miles’ statement where everyone seemed to look at anyone else but him, and Kent didn’t know whether to inwardly sigh or thank them. It was a blatant set up to keep him in the station, but Kent couldn’t find it in himself to bristle. Whilst he was actively trying to challenge himself as far as dealing with this case was concerned, he could realistically admit to not being ready to see any of the other bodies up close- most especially not the ones pulled just fresh from the Thames.

“I can stay and do the interview, Serg?” Kent offered. He swallowed heavily as all eyes suddenly converged on him. He had a fleeting moment of uncertainty, wondering if he’d read the situation wrong before Chandler chimed in.

“Are you sure?” And he wasn’t just asking about the interview. Kent nodded, offering a small smile. Chandler gave him a long, hard stare before nodding back once.

“Okay, Kent will take the lead on this afternoon’s interview. Miles and I will head to the first crime scene. Mansell, Riley, head to the second. Dr Llewellyn will be at the second site, get her initial assessment and statements from whoever found the body. Be ready to leave in five minutes.”

Everyone moved off then, with Miles and Chandler heading into his office and Mansell and Riley to their desks to pack up whatever they needed to take with them. Kent hovered at his desk, feeling an odd sort of emptiness at not going with his team.

“Told you it was a serial killer,” Mansell hissed over towards Riley who was rolling her eyes when Kent looked over.

“Try not to be so happy about it,” she hissed back, pointedly looking at Kent who in turn rolled his eyes at Mansell who grinned.

“Kent knows my wit and charm is all a deflection for how distraught I truly am over these horrendous crimes.” Mansell said, clasping his hands over his heart.

“You’re insensitive is what you are,” Riley laughed, at the same time Kent snorted and said: “Distraught my arse.”

“They may still be gang related,” Mansell added with a shrug, “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“I’m not sure which would be worse.” Kent said, stilling.

“What, why?” Riley asked.

“Considering our track record with serial killers and gangs?” Kent asked and watched as the other two stilled, sharing an awkward look between them. Kent shifted, biting at his tongue and turning back to his desk.

“Um,” Kent jumped as Mansell came up behind him. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it, right? I was just joking about-,” he waved his hand awkwardly.

“What? Of course,” Kent forced a smile onto his face, wishing he’d kept his mouth closed.

“It’s just… Riley’s right,” he pressed on, scratching at the back of his head. “I can sometimes be insensitive. Well, I _am_ most of the time. But, you know, I don’t mean it?”

“Yeah, course.”

Mansell hesitated a moment, then opened his mouth as if he were about to say something else only to snap it shut again as Chandler and Miles stepped out of his office.

“Right then,” he inclined his head at Kent before hurrying off to his desk. He watched him go a moment, frowning, until Chandler stepped into his line of sight.

“You’ll be okay?” He asked, quiet enough not to be overheard.

“It’s only an interview.” Kent agreed.

“That’s not what I meant.” He said, discreetly reaching out to catch at Kent’s hand, tangling their fingers briefly.

Kent sighed, relaxing. “I’ll be fine.”

“Phone if you need me?” Chandler asked, only stepping away when Kent promised.

The silence after they left was almost deafening.

It took Kent less than a minute to realise that this was the first time he’d actually been left alone in the Incident Room since his initial attack.

  - - -

He couldn’t settle for the longest time.

Every little noise, the creak of shoes on cheap linoleum, the ticking of the radiators, they all had him on high alert, twisting in his seat until his right leg began to spasm from the repeated wrenching.

Scowling openly, Kent massaged at the underside of his thigh, biting back a wince as his fingertips pressed against the thick line of scarring beneath his trousers. It helped ease the muscle, but not the cluster of nerves beneath it that were seizing and sending sparks of pain down his leg.

Kent bit his lip against the twinges, against his own paranoia. It’s not like he expected anyone to come into the Incident Room for him, not _now_ anyway. Maybe in the first few months after he’d been cornered here, but he trusted Chandler when he said they’d rooted out as many of Kray’s men as they’d been able to find. And surely anyone holding a grudge over that whole sorry affair would have made a move by now?

 _Stupid. Stupid._ He cursed himself as he heard someone passing by the door and tensed instinctively at the sound.

They hadn’t made any noise the last time.

Kent felt the back of his neck prickle in remembrance.

No, they hadn’t.

He’d look up and they’d just be standing there and watching him.

He’d look again and suddenly they’d be gone.

But when he looked again…

“DC Kent?” A uniformed officer was standing just inside the room, watching him.

Kent startled badly, dropping the Smith file; papers flying every which way.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you!” The officer said, giving him an embarrassed sort of smile.

Kent waved her off, smiling somewhat shakily in return.

“Sorry,” he apologised, bending in his seat to grab the pages back up. “Working too hard I guess.”

She laughed politely, clearing her throat a little as Kent straightened, biting at his cheeks to curtail another open wince of pain. His heart was thundering against his chest, his fingers shaking and sloppy as he shoved the fallen papers back into the manila folder.

“Um. I’m PC Valo. I’m supposed to be sitting in on your interview today?” She said, still watching him.

“Oh, yes,” Kent nodded, glancing at the mess in his hands for a name. “Has Ms-,”

“Ms Connolly has arrived.” She agreed, “I’ve set her up in one of the interview rooms.”

Kent smiled his thanks before carefully easing himself up and out of his chair. He could feel the tremble in his leg the instant he was on his feet and reached out to grab at his desk.

“If you give me a minute to get my things in order, I’ll meet you there?” It was offered as a suggestion but the surprise on her face said she knew it wasn’t.

“Of course.” She agreed, leaving quickly.

Kent turned back to his desk, bending slightly at the waist, as though he could stretch the muscle out like a cramp. It helped a little, but not enough to keep the limp from his walk as he eventually stepped away and moved from his desk towards the doors.

 - - -

It was a few hours more before the team returned, drenched and downtrodden after viewing the bodies of their two latest victims.

Kent had phoned Chandler after conducting his rather uneventful interview, offering to meet the team out in the field. The silence on his part when Chandler said there was no need, that they were almost done anyway and could fill him in when they got back, was due partly to disappointment and largely to what felt like a hand squeezing at his insides at the thought of having to spend more time alone in the Incident Room.

Returning after the interview hadn’t been fun. Not after freaking himself out so wholly before seeing Ms Connolly. His leg still hurt but he didn’t dare take anything for the pain whilst on the job.

“Emerson?” Chandler’s voice was softer, muffled, as if he’d turned away to make the call more private. His concern evident. “Is everything okay?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed heavily. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Chandler was silent this time and Kent winced. He couldn’t do this though, he couldn’t start a conversation like this over the phone.

“I’ll see you when you get back. Sir.” Kent said then.

“I won’t be long.” Chandler promised.

Not long had turned out to be three hours later. Chandler full of apologies and grousing about an incident involving the press at the second scene, which Miles and himself had ended up having to attend.

Kent offered them all a sympathetic smile, saying nothing as they migrated to their respective desks to dump their things and make attempts at drying off.

He turned back to his own desk, looking at the half-written report he’d been working on since the interview and grimaced. It was a poor showing for a days work, he knew, but he’d been unable to devote his full attention to it. Too hyperaware of every little noise, too busy counting down the ticks of the clock and wondering just when exactly ‘ _won’t be long_ ’ was meant to be.

“Everyone go home,” Chandler said, coming out of his office with a fresh set of clothes on. His hair however, soaked from the rain and raked back with his fingers refused to stay put and fell forward into his eyes.

“Dr Llewellyn is getting started on the autopsies, we already have the identities, there’s not much else to do tonight that we can’t do first thing tomorrow.”

Nobody protested the announcement. Not even Miles who tipped his head at Chandler before following the other two out of the room, vague goodbyes thrown over their shoulders towards them. 

Kent turned back to his desk to find Chandler watching him. He huffed a laugh, leaning back carefully and folding his arms across his chest, feeling considerably more relaxed now that someone else was here with him.

“I’m fine,” he said before Chandler could ask.

Chandler raised his eyebrows and moved to lean against the desk beside him. Kent thought of the first time Chandler had done this, all those months ago. The way he’d reached out and cupped his jaw, traced his thumb across his cheek.

Instead of reaching for Kent however, he half-turned to survey his desk, eyes skimming the unfinished report Kent was still working on.

“This from the interview?” Chandler asked, no inflection to his voice.

Kent felt his cheeks heat immediately and dropped his head. “I- yes. I’m still working on it.”

“Busy day?” Chandler queried and Kent flinched. He should have known he’d have to explain his distraction to Chandler.

“Have you taken your tablets?” he asked when Kent didn’t answer. Kent looked up quickly, surprised.

“You look like you’re in pain.” He explained. “What happened?”

Kent sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “This was the first time I’ve been alone here since-,” he broke off.

“I know,” Chandler said, reaching for him then, his hand cold as he gripped at Kent’s

Kent nodded. “I didn’t realise until you’d already left.”

“I didn’t either,” he said, making it sound like an apology. Kent shook his head, absolving him without words.

“I just got myself a little worked up. Kept jumping at the daftest things. My leg,” he shrugged, as if that explained everything. Chandler nodded.

“How did the interview go?” He asked.

“About as well as the rest of my day.” Kent sighed. “She wasn’t saying much, and anything she did say was just vague and indecisive.”

He squeezed at Kent’s hand. “You think she’s hiding something?”

Kent shrugged. “I think she was being very careful about what she did say. She wasn’t very happy at having to come in.”

“But nothing decisive?” Chandler clarified.

“Nothing decisive,” he agreed.

“Let’s go home then,” Chandler said, making to move.

“What about the other victims?” Kent asked, stilling Chandler with a hand to his wrist.

Chandler smiled at him, twisting away to catch at Kent’s fingers, tangling them with his. “Like I said, nothing we can’t leave for morning.”

He squeezed at Kent’s hand before standing and moving to grab his things from his office. Kent stood carefully, closing down his computer and moving the folders on his desk into a neat pile.

He was just grabbing up his own jacket when his phone began to ring. He stared at it dumbly for a minute before grabbing up the receiver.

“DC Kent,” he answered, frowning at nothing in particular.

_‘Hi, it’s um Emily. From today? I spoke with you about Danny?’_

“Ms Connolly, yes, hello,” Kent greeted, surprise lacing his voice.

_‘Look, I’m sorry about today. I just- there’s some things I didn’t know how to tell you. Or if I should. The people who’re being hurt, um- killed,’_ she corrected _, ‘I might know-‘_ she broke off.

“Ms Connolly, it would help us immensely if you could tell us anything you might know. It’ll help us get justice for Dan-Danny.” He implored, only stumbling a little over the name.

Silence reigned for a minute.  _‘I’m not sure if I should…’_

“I can arrange to have you protected if you’re afraid?” Kent offered, biting at his lips. He glanced up to find Chandler standing in his doorway, watching him carefully.

‘ _Um. Can you come tonight? I just… I’ll tell you everything I know but you have to come tonight.’_

“I can do that,” Kent agreed readily. “Where shall I meet you, Ms Connolly?”

‘ _I’m at home.’_

When Kent ended the call, Chandler was frowning. “That sounded-,”

“-more than a little suspicious?” Kent finished. “She says she withheld some information. Which is funny seeing as she didn’t share anything in the first place. Wants me to meet her at her home…” he drifted off, mouth twisting.

Chandler frowned again. “We’ll take two officers with us then,” Chandler decided, “just in case there’s any trouble. If she’s sincere we can leave them with her for protection.”

Kent raised his eyebrows. “We’re going?”

Chandler stared at him a moment, “Is there someone else you want to go with?” he asked, looking around the empty room.

“No! No… it’s just, you usually do this part with Miles.” Kent blurted, feeling immediately foolish.

“Miles isn’t here.” Chandler smiled, “And she called you.”

“I know, it’s just… well, he’s tetchy enough about the way things are between us and-,” Kent scratched at the back of his neck, shifting a little awkwardly. “I just don’t want him to think this is a- a preferential thing.”

“I think if the team were still here and Ms Connolly hadn’t specifically asked for you, then it would be different. If Miles has a problem with our conduct at work he’ll let us know either way, regardless of our intentions.”

“Yeah, he will,” Kent agreed, grimacing as he remembered their last few encounters.

“Are you up for this?” Chandler asked, nodding pointedly at the way Kent was leaning his left side against his desk to help alleviate the pressure on the right.

“I’ll be fine,” he dismissed, making a show of balancing his weight out.

Chandler looked like he wanted to say something in response to that. He turned away at the last minute, adjusting his scarf.

“What?” Kent asked, bristling.

Chandler shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. He scraped it back without thought.

“Just say it,” Kent sighed, angling himself back against his desk.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said, echoing Kent’s words from last night.

“I promise not to take too much offence,” Kent placated.

Chandler gave him another long stare. “I wish you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“What?” Kent blinked at him, startled. “When did I-,”

Chandler interrupted: “Every time you tell me you’re fine, but you’re clearly not.”

“I told you my leg was playing up?” he said slowly.

“The phone call earlier today?” Chandler started, “After I sent everyone else home, before I could even open my mouth? Last night?”

“Joe-,” It was Kent’s turn to rake his hand through his hair, fingers curling a little bit tighter, a little bit longer, than he knew he should. “Do you really want to do this now?”

Chandler shook his head. “We should get going,” he said instead, making towards the doors.

Kent darted forward, wincing openly as he jarred his leg, and grabbed at Chandler’s arm, stopping him.

“If I told you every time I wasn’t fine… that’s all I’d be telling you about some days.” He said, squeezing his fingers into Chandler’s arm.

“I don’t want this-  _us_ \-  to be about how messed up I am and I don’t want you having to reassure me all the time either. Sometimes I just have to pretend, for my own sake. I am trying, Joe. And… I promise, okay, if I’m really not fine, I’ll talk to you.” He smiled softly, “I usually do, don’t I?”

Chandler raked his eyes over him before relaxing under his hand. He turned more fully towards Kent and offered his arms in placation. Kent went willingly enough, sighing into the damp collar of his coat.

“I’m sorry,” Chandler said, “I think today just has me on edge, after seeing those-,” he shook his head as if to dispel an image, “-and knowing you were here and  _not_ okay just made the whole day all the more frustrating.”

“You were worried about me?” Kent asked, hiding a smile.

“When am I not?” He returned.

“Hmm… maybe you should start telling me when you’re not fine?” He said, turning his head up towards Chandler who laughed.

“Maybe I should,” he agreed, leaning in to peck a kiss against his lips, ignorant of Kent’s blush at such a blatant display, even in the emptiness of the Incident Room.

“Was it really that bad?” Kent asked, clearing his throat and stepping out of Chandler’s arms. None of them had said anything about the bodies pulled from the Thames.

“Worse,” Chandler admitted, mouth tight. “A lot worse.”

 - - -

Knowing something was more than a little suspect and making that leap from suspicious to an all out set up was not something Kent had been prepared for. Though something told him he really should have seeing as the first words out of Emily Connolly’s mouth were of the  _‘you didn’t come alone_ ’ variety.

She let them into her flat right enough and right into the path of the two men who were waiting for Kent.

With Connolly trying to slam the door before the two uniformed officers could step into the flat behind Chandler and himself, Kent paused, half-turning towards the tussle over the front door when he caught a glimpse of something flashing towards him from the right.

He managed to step back a second before the knife that came swinging towards him could connect with his face. He cried out in shock, lifting his arm in defence as he stumbled back down the short hallway. His attacker followed, with a second lunging towards Chandler. The first man grabbed at his arm, twisting it so violently that Kent found himself shoved face first into the wall behind him, knocking his head, his arm wrenched up behind his back till he screamed, feeling as though his shoulder had been ripped from the socket.

And suddenly he was flashing back to the Kray’s, to their initial attack, to being shoved against the wall and held down as he was striped. He felt his stomach roll, his ears ringing with the sound of his screams, a chilled numbness rushing through his body.

_Not again_ , he prayed.  _Oh god, not again. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t- oh god._

The panic rose, sending his heart thundering, his body trembled and that horrible, all-consuming feeling of weakness, worthlessness, washed over him, freezing him to the spot as the knife came perilously close to his face.

_Good boy._

He clenched his eyes closed against the sight of the knife, against the way the flat of it brushed against his mouth as his attacker jostled him, shouting commands to his accomplices.

A bang then- the front door being kicked open, a woman’s scream. Chandler screaming too. And Kent felt his heart clench, attention immediately focussing in on Chandler’s voice screaming his name through the roaring in his ears, and for the first time, he found himself fighting through the panic, to struggle against his attacker, to somehow manage to headbutt the guy in the face- the satisfying crunch of bone impacting- and the pain of a broken nose forcing him to let Kent go, to stumble back as Kent twisted round, breathing hard, in time to see Chandler take him out with a left hook.

“Emerson?” Chandler was calling him, but Kent could barely hear him, even when Chandler stood in front of him, hands gripping at his arms, calling his name repeatedly but as though through water. Distorted. Distant. Meant for somebody else.

And then suddenly everything was too loud and too real and too  _painful_ . As if someone had suddenly pressed the on switch. He wasn’t standing in the hall of the Connolly flat anymore though, he was lying prone on a bed in a room with a very distinctive, disinfectant sort of smell.

He groaned, turning his head to find Chandler sitting beside his hospital bed, asleep, brow creased in worry. He made to lift his arm, to reach out and take the hand he’d left resting beside him but the move sent fire racing through him and he bit back a whimper, vaguely recalling being shoved up against a wall and his arm being unceremoniously yanked up behind his back.

When the spots clouding his vision cleared enough for him to focus again, he discovered that there was a PCA system hooked up to his left arm and Kent wasted no time in pressing at the button, waiting for the pain relievers to get to work.

It wasn’t until he felt the drowsiness beginning to take over that he remembered the knife, remembered the Krays, remembered that maybe it was a bad idea to go to sleep after all. Too late though, as his vision dulled and he was swept off into unconsciousness.

 

That was the night the nightmares returned in earnest.

 - - -

The weeks following on from the attack were some of the most frustrating and testing for Kent and Chandler both. Kent had been discharged from the hospital with painkillers and his arm wrapped up in a sling the following morning, after a night spent jerking himself awake from nightmare after nightmare; images of knifes and blood and the Kray’s laughing, their hands reaching, reaching,  _touching…_

Chandler had stayed through the night. Calmed him when he woke, held him until his tremors subsided and he was pulled unceremoniously back under by the next dose of painkillers. Neither of them got very much sleep that night.

Whilst nothing had been broken, his ligaments had been severely wrenched, but thankfully not torn. He was told to rest, keep his arm in the sling and ice it to reduce the pain and swelling. And if it was still as bad in a few weeks time when he went back for a check up, they’d reassess the damage and possibly look into surgery options.

They didn’t get out of the hospital until the early hours of the morning, Kent point-blank refusing to stay another second longer than he possibly had to. Chandler hadn’t been happy, but he’d also had no say in the matter when faced with Kent’s determination to leave with or without his consent.

Chandler had driven them both back to his apartment and things had steadily gone from bad to worse. Every little thing he did seemed to set his shoulder ablaze with pain; so much so that even  _breathing_ wrong hurt him so badly he’d feel tears spring to his eyes.

The ice packs only did so much, the painkillers- with their staggered dosages to ensure the maximum amount of coverage- only seemed to take the edge off, and to top it all off: every time he closed his eyes he saw that goddamned knife flying towards his face and promptly woke up drenched in a cold sweat, screaming and flailing and jerking his arm.

Not even sleeping beside Chandler could help, not when he was boxed in on either side by pillows to keep him still instead of in Chandler’s arms. The nightmares, and the never ending pain, topped with his humiliation at being a victim  _again_ , were enough to set him on edge. He found himself angry and snapping at the smallest of things, every time Chandler tried to help him especially.

He hated the wounded look Chandler sometimes got in his eyes, but more than that he hated the way his eyes would sometimes harden and he’d clench his jaw against everything he wanted to say in retaliation.

Kent started sleeping back at his own place during that first week. Tired of the way he’d been treating Chandler, tired of using pain and fear as an excuse. He’d been put on leave immediately following the attack, and maybe that was the sorest point of it all, the part that really gnawed at him, planting little seeds of doubt beneath his skin.

But things weren’t any better at his own place. His flatmates, used to his quirks since the Kray’s attack offered him a wide berth with not a single question and only offering help the once.

It was almost worse than Chandler’s hovering had been, having no body to look out for him. He spent his first day back drifting in and out of a restless sleep, waking sometime two mornings later and freaking himself out wondering if he was slipping back into bad habits.

His therapist had never sounded so happy to talk to him as when he phoned her out of the blue.

Five days after returning home, Chandler turned up at his door. He could have called, Kent supposed, but felt warmed that Chandler wanted to see him at all.

They sat awkwardly in the kitchen, still with dishes piled high on the drying board. Some still in the sink waiting to be washed. The bin hadn’t been emptied and no one had swept the floor and Kent felt a bit embarrassed to have Chandler sitting at the table with a his tea in a mismatched mug when he knew exactly how pristine Chandler’s own place was.

“They’ve reassigned the investigation,” Chandler said. Kent dragged a blunt fingernail over the design on his mug. He looked up at Chandler, frowning.

“Organised Crime,” he elaborated, grimacing. Kent shared in the sympathy.

“So it was gang related?” Kent asked.

Chandler nodded. “It was part of some kind of initiation. They- some of them were only kids,” he swallowed thickly. “They’d filmed the attacks on their mobile phones, proof to get in.”

Kent looked away, feeling a little raw. The kinds of deaths they dealt with were never not senseless, but this? This was more than just one persons kind of crazy, it was nonsensical, meaningless, so many lives lost just for the sake of getting into some gang?

“They’ll keep us updated,” Chandler pressed on, “But we’re off the investigation.”

Kent nodded. They didn’t talk about much aside from that and eventually Chandler stood, rinsing his mug and Kent’s both and sitting them at the side of the sink to dry.

Kent led him back to the front door, hovering on the front step, unsure what to say but knowing that he didn’t want Chandler to leave. Chandler was watching him, looking just as unsure.

“I miss you,” he said then, plain as day. Hands in the pockets of his coat, cheeks tingeing a little.

“I miss you too,” Kent breathed, face falling.

Chandler stepped in then, and mindful of his arm in the sling, drew Kent into his arms for the. God how he’d missed this. Kent thought, immediately burying his face against Chandler’s neck, breathing in deeply the scent of him.

When they eventually pulled away, Chandler took his free hand and without needing to ask, led him towards his car.

Stepping into Chandler’s apartment, he felt as though a weight had been lifted from him.

He turned, smiling at Chandler for the first time that day as he closed the door behind them.

Stepping into Chandler’s arms then however felt like coming home.

 - - - 

They’d settled into a semblance of a routine, with Kent and Chandler standing at the kitchen island, preparing tea.

He’d fetched the mugs and the teabags, Chandler heating the kettle and fetching the teaspoons.

Kent trying not to show how much pain he was in as he leaned heavily against the counter.

Chandler trying not to ask every time he noticed and burying his concern in every sip of tea.

It was only a matter of time before one of them ruined the happy medium.

The hand at his hip startled him badly and he twisted instinctively out of reach, the knee-jerk reaction caused his tea to slosh over the rim of his mug and before he could catch himself his fingers had already loosened their grip and Kent watched in muted horror as the mug hit the kitchen floor, ceramic and hot liquid exploding out across the room.

“I’m sorry!” They both exclaimed at the same time; Chandler with his hands in the air, Kent with his left cradled protectively across his right arm.

Chandler grabbed for a dishtowel and crouched, mopping up the tea and the broken pieces of the mug. “I shouldn’t have touched you,” he apologised. “I know better.”

“I- it’s okay,” Kent mumbled, “I just wasn’t expecting it.” His heart was pounding against his ribcage as though trying to break free. He sucked in a deep breath, holding it for as long as he could before shuddering out an exhale.

“Are you okay?” Chandler asked, chucking the whole mess straight into the rubbish bin before getting out another cloth and some bleach spray. He met Kent’s eyes worriedly, guiltily, and Kent nodded.

Chandler frowned. “No, I meant- you’re limping?”

“Oh,” Kent dropped his gaze, hunching in on himself a little. “It’s my leg, it’s still-I messed it up that night before we- before they-,” He stumbled over his words.

“That’s almost two weeks,” Chandler calculated. Kent shifted awkwardly.

“The tablets I have help take the edge off.” He offered, cheeks flushing as Chandler looked at him.

“What about your creams?” he asked. “Do you need to-,” he gestured towards the bathroom and Kent’s cheeks flushed darker.

“Hey,” Chandler stood then, throwing the cloth in the sink and returning the bleach to the cupboard beneath it, floor looking good as new. “What’s wrong?”

Kent looked elsewhere, feeling Chandler’s eyes staring at the top of his head.

“You haven’t been using them have you?” he asked softly.

“Things have been a little difficult,” he excused. More than a little, if he were honest. He could barely wipe his own arse without jerking his injured shoulder in a way that made learning to live with the sciatic pain his number one priority. He’d tried, once, to apply his creams and had ended up curled on his bedroom floor, crying with pain and frustration. Not even his Diazepam had been able to take the edge off that time.

“Do you need a hand?” Chandler asked, carefully, warily, as if he expected Kent to snap his head off for asking. A few weeks ago he might have, but now, and for what he was actually offering…

Kent could almost feel the colour draining from his face and he stepped hurriedly away from Chandler. “NO!” he shouted, backing away for every step Chandler tried to follow. “No,” he breathed, left arm held out and Chandler stopped, hands up and confused. “You can’t- I can’t- you’ll  _see_ !”

_Oh god_ . He couldn’t. What if Chandler saw him and felt as revolted by his scars as Kent himself was? What if it was an imperfection too far with everything else Kent had thrown at him and Chandler called the whole thing off? He couldn’t live without Chandler in his life, didn’t want to try.

“Hey,” And Chandler was slipping into his personal space, gathering him into his arms. “What is it you think I’ll see, Emerson?”

“My scars,” he choked, clinging to the back of Chandler’s shirt with his free hand.

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know how Kent felt about them. Maybe not in so many explicit words, but the hints as to his self-loathing weren’t exactly few and far between.

“You’ll- they’re disgusting,” he said, his words strangled. “I’m disgusting.”

“No you’re not,” the denial came instantaneously, along with the tightening of Chandler’s arms. “You are brave, and beautiful and ridiculously stubborn at times, but you are not disgusting. Never that, Emerson.”

“No, I’m-,” he felt like sobbing as Chandler drew away to look at him, his hands urging Kent’s face up, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“-You’re perfect, and I love you. I love everything about you, Emerson. Even the parts I haven’t seen.  _Especially_ the parts of you I haven’t seen, because you’re a fighter and those scars are only a reminder of how strong you’ve been, nothing more.”

Kent stared, a roaring in his ears as he tried to process everything Chandler had said to him, his mind stuck on the loop of  _I love you I love everything about you_ .

“Let me help you,” Chandler spoke softly, his voice gentle and coaxing and Kent, at the end of his tether, was powerless to do anything other than nod his consent.

His body moved on autopilot as Chandler took him by the hand and lead them into the bedroom.

“I can’t-,” he choked out, feeling suddenly light-headed as he looked at the bed. “Oh god.”

“Hey, hey,” Chandler turned to him, drawing him back into his arms, hands running the length of his back. “You can. You’re stronger than you think you are, Emerson.”

“I don’t know that I am.” He admitted.

“You are,” Chandler said. “All we’re going to do now is undress a little bit, okay?”

He felt the tremors running through his body as Chandler reached out to unbutton his shirt, fingers swift but careful. He stood close enough for his sling to brush against Chandler’s chest, and he closed his eyes, trying to imagine this situation another way, with himself as another person- this brave, stubborn, person Chandler claimed to know.

The hand on his belt pulled a whimper from his lips and his eyes flashed opened, hand reaching out to clamp over Chandler’s own.

“Just to your boxers,” he promised, witing for Kent to inhale a few shuddery breaths before he nodded.

“Just to our boxers,” he said and Chandler smiled, leaning in to kiss him gently. It worked enough as a distraction and Kent wrapped his arm around Chandler’s neck, losing himself in the hard press of Chandler’s mouth before it softened eagerly beneath his own.

He felt cool air hit his legs seconds after his trousers hit the floor and he stepped gingerly from them, keeping his mouth pressed to Chandler’s as he shifted and writhed, removing his own shirt and pants, pulling back only when he heard Chandler’s own clothes hit the floor.

He stared at the pile at their feet, expensive tailoring left exactly where it fell and Chandler with eyes only for him. Something in his chest tightened and he moved in to kiss Chandler again.

“You’re trembling,” Chandler noticed as they drew apart once more, he ran his hands gently along Kent’s sides, careful not to dip too low. “You’re going to be okay,” he promised. “If you need me to stop just tell me and I will.”

Kent swallowed thickly but didn’t say anything as Chandler led them to the bed, helping Kent remove his sling and prop himself face-down against the pillows in a comfortable way.

“I mean it. I just want to help you, but if you decide you really can’t, you have to tell me Emerson. I don’t ever want to do anything you don’t want.”

“I’m scared,” Kent breathed. Turning his head into the pillows.

“Of what?” Chandler asked.

“Of what you’ll think. What you’ll  _really_ think.” It’s much easier to admit when he isn’t looking at Chandler.

“About your scars?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve already told you how I feel, Emerson. I can’t imagine they’ll change my opinion of you, how I feel about you.”

“They’ll change everything,” he whispered, words almost lost against the pillow.

Chandler said nothing as he manoeuvred himself onto the bed.

He wasn’t expecting the kiss to the back of his neck and Kent found himself turning his head a little towards Chandler. He was rewarded when the next kiss was to his cheek, the third chaste and too-brief to his lips.

The fourth to his left shoulder blade and from there he trailed his mouth gently down Kent’s back, kissing every ridge and dip of his spine and Kent- despite knowing what was to come- found himself relaxing into the mattress for the  blissful few minutes it took before Chandler reached the waistband of his boxers.

Kent tensed, breathing haggard, heart taking up a staccato beat against his chest.

“Do you trust me?”

It took a long moment, but Kent’s eventual reply was to arch his hips in a way that would allow Chandler to remove his boxers.

Chandler leant in, pressing a kiss to the small of his back before urging his underwear down over the curve of his arse and down the length of his thighs. He rested his hand on the side of Kent’s thigh, fingers twitching against the flesh but otherwise unmoving for a moment.

And Kent knew this was it. This would be the moment Chandler realised it had been all for naught. He bit so hard at his tongue trying to keep a sob from spilling past his lips that he tasted blood. He didn’t even try to keep the tears at bay, letting them slip silently from his clenched eyes to be soaked into Chandler’s pillow.

The first touch to the very tip of the scar on his left side was unexpected, and Kent gasped into the pillow.

The first kiss had his eyes flying open in shock. Chandler said something he didn’t quite catch and Kent imagined him looking at the evidence of his striping- the puckered flesh still that angry pink of fresh scarring, thick and tearing their way through him. The stitches may be gone but they still look- and felt- deep, sore.

The second kiss was as much of a shock as the first and Kent gasped again at the touch.

“Two,” Chandler breathed. Kent shivered beneath him.

“Does that hurt?” He asked quietly.

Kent shook his head, “No, I- no.”

“But you’re shaking,” Chandler said, leaning in to press a third kiss to his left scar.

“Yes,” Kent agreed, not sure what else to say. He was terrified and intrigued, worried but curious, Chandler’s reactions so far were nothing like those he’d imagined. He could barely touch them himself and yet here Chandler was, pressing his mouth so willingly against his ruined flesh.

“Why?” He struggled to talk, his words catching as Chandler slowly moved down the length of his scar, pressing kisses four through-

“Fourteen,” Chandler counted. “Why?”

“How can you-  _there_ ,” Kent choked out.

“Why not?” He challenged, planting another kiss and then another and then: “Seventeen,” he breathed, mouth wet against what Kent knew was the very tip of that scar.

And then he moved onto Kent’s right side. “Eighteen,” he started.

“I don’t understand,” Kent whispered, shivering under kisses nineteen through twenty-three.

“You think these scars are… disfiguring?” Chandler asked, breathing kisses twenty-four and five against said scar.

“Yes!” Kent choked out.

“You think they make you disfigured?” Chandler asked, kisses twenty-six, seven, eight, spilling from his lips.

“Yes!” Kent agreed. “I- they make me feel sick. Ugly. Terrified of what you really think.”

“What I really think?” Chandler’s voice was surprised. “I think you’re beautiful, Emerson,” he said between kisses twenty-nine and thirty. “I think you’re beautiful and brave and stubborn.”

Kiss thirty-one was done with a smile, and Kent felt his thigh tremble beneath it, nerves spiking at the touch.

“Thirty-two,” Chandler counted, nearing the tail end of the right scar, the longer, thicker, more painful of the two. “Thirty-three.”

Kent bit at his lip, feeling as though something inside of himself was breaking apart even as Chandler’s kisses (thirty-four, thirty-five) seemed to stitch him back together again.

“Thirty-six,” he whispered, words spoken so close Kent felt them brush against the back of his thigh.

“Thirty-seven,” he said, voice a little louder, kiss a little wetter, and Kent knew he’d reached the end of that one too.

“Thirty-seven kisses,” Chandler repeated, moving up the bed to look Kent in the eye. “To take the pain away.”

And Kent felt that something that was breaking apart, split open like a damn. The sob he’d been holding onto slipping past his lips as easily as his tears did from his eyes.

Chandler paused only long enough to kiss his forehead before he grabbed Kent’s creams and made careful but swift work of applying them. Once done, he smoothly lifted Kent’s boxers back into place before crawling back up the bed and gathering Kent gently into his arms, tucking his injured arm between them as he held him tightly against his chest.

“You didn’t tell me to stop,” Chandler said, Kent’s tears starting to subside.

“No,” Kent replied hoarsely, head tucked up under Chandler’s chin. Wrung out. Safe. Loved.

“Should I have?” he asked, running a hand through Kent’s hair and kissing at his temple.

“No,” Kent said, turning his head to kiss softly at the underside of Chandler's neck. “You never have to stop.”

 - - -

_**fin.** _

 - - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! This is it... the end! Omg. I do hope this last chapter is everything you guys were expecting it to be, and I can only apologise if I've disappointed anyone or missed something you were hoping to see. I also apologise for how very long you all had to wait for this last part.
> 
> I never thought this story would ever get done and I'm so grateful and thankful to every single one of you who has followed this story and let me know how much you've enjoyed it, especially when I started doubting it and myself! 
> 
> I love you guys <33 like seriously.
> 
>  
> 
> (shameless plug: if you've enjoyed 37stitches, and love how I handled the characters/themes in the story, you might want to check out [my website](https://carmenshea.co.uk/the-amanzimtoti-series), where you can read the first novel in my published series for free. The "Amanzimtoti" series is a young adult, lgbt+, coming of age story set in South Africa, and follows Wayne du Preez as he struggles to accept a sexual orientation he's spent his whole life believing was wrong.)


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